3K 


m 


' 


/  7  *  7. 


£en  Dags  tn  Spain 


(September,  1873.) 


THE     BLINKER. 


"Have  no  fear,  Madam  ;  depend  upon  me,  and  you  will  see  everything." 

See  page  34. 


TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN 


BY 

KATE   FIELD 


ILLUSTRATED 


BOSTON    AND    NEW   YORK 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 

€foe  fitoerstoe  \Bxts$,  Cambri&se 

1898 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874, 

BY  JAMES  B.    OSGOOD   AND   COMPANY, 

in  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


% 


Pctiicatcb, 

IN     SWEET      REVENGE, 

TO 

THE   BLINKEK. 


Coithnts 


PART   I. 

BY  WAY   OF   INTRODUCTION. 

Rain  in  the  Pyrenees.  —  Concerning  Biarritz.  —  Plan  of  entering 
Spain.  —  A  Prudent  Journalist.  —  Untrustworthy  Couriers.  — 
Conciliating  Public  Opinion 11 

PART    II. 

A   VOYAGE  TO   SANTANDER. 

A  Delusive  Courier.  —  St.  Jean  de  Luz.  —  The  Inhabitants  of  the 
Basque  Provinces.  —  Women  who  labor  and  Men  who  don't. — 
Discomforts  peculiar  to  the  Bay  of  Biscay 37 

PART  III. 

FROM  SANTANDER  TO  MADRID. 

An  Episode  of  Spanish  Quarantine.  —  Fumigating  an  Empty  Trunk. 
—  The  Blinker  every  Inch  Himself.  —  Incidents  of  Railroad  Trav- 
elling        73 

PART   IV. 

MADRID. 

First  Impressions  of  the  City.  —  A  Bull-Fight.  —  The  Sanguinary 
Instincts  of  the  Spaniards.  —  Cock-Fighting.  —  Spanish  Cooking      101 


CONTENTS. 


PART   V. 

EMILIO   CASTELAR. 

The  Gallery  of  Paintings  at  Madrid.  — A  Visit  to  Emilio  Castelar. — 
Talks  with  Bourgeois,  Office-Holders,  and  the  Blinker,  on  the 
Prospects  of  Republicanism 129 

PART   VI. 

THE  ESCORIAL  AND   TOLEDO. 

A.  Child  of  the  Escorial.  —  Spain's  Eighth  Wonder  of  the  World.  — 
The  Tagus. — Toledo's  Streets  and  only  Hotel.  —  Mental  Dys- 
pepsia. —  Frozen  Music.  —  The  Toledan  Cathedral  and  Alcazar.  — 
A  Carlist 161 

PART  VII. 

LAST   DAY   IN   MADRID. 

A  Disappointment.  —  A  Model  Banker. —  Buying  a  Mantilla. — 
Seeing  the  Cortes.  —  Interview  with  Figueras.  — A  Carlist  Noble- 
man.—  Farewell  to  Madrid. — Giggling  Nuns       ....    191 

PART  VIII. 

CROSSING   THE   FRONTIER. 

A  Returned  Officer.  — The  Blinker  in  his  Original  Character.  —  Ta- 
falla.  —  An  Omnibus  and  its  Passengers.  —  Dust  and  Desolation.  — 
Pampeluna.  —  Night  in  a  Posada.  —  Smugglers.  —  Carlists  again. 

—  Runaway  Conscripts 213 

PART  IX. 

LAST  DAY  OF  ALL. 

Bayonne  and  Bayonets.  —  Apostrophe  to  France. — A  Carlist  Inva- 
sion.—  Restoration  of  a  Long-Lost  Trunk.  —  The  Blinker's  Fare- 
well.—  Castelar  and  Federal  Spain. — The  Adventurer  Serrano. 

—  A  Good  Word  for  Isabella  II 261 


$  llttstraiinits. 


THE   BLINK.EB    .......  Frontispiece. 

"  Have  no  fear,  Madam ;  depend  upon  me." 

Page 

"  Nor  do  I  like  chickens  rolled  up  in  dirty  newspapers  "        40 

"  Catch  me  marrying !  " 55 

"  I  curled  up  on  the  least  dirty  bench  "       .         .         .  61 

"  Madam,  I  never  liked  my  grandmother ! "     .         .         .71 
"  In  single  file  we  hurried  to  the  station  "  .         .         .  87 

"  Naked,  russet  mountains,  —  all  dead  but  the  train  "        .     99 
Rescuing  the  picador  .         .         .         .         .         .115 

The  espada's  last  thrust 120 

Emilio  Castelar 139 

Don  Carlos 155 

The  last  resting-place  of  royalty  ....        170 


1 0  ILL  US  TEA  TIONS. 

A  street  in  Toledo 180 

Bargaining  for  a  mantilla 197 

Tussle  for  a  carpet-bag  .......  208 

Meeting  the  Carlists 223 

A  dinner  extraordinary .......  227 

"  It  was  not  an  imposing  procession  "...  256 

"  The  Blinker  was  delighted  with  my  complaisance  "        .  267 


PART   I, 


I    Mil   of   Introduction. 


I. 


Rain  in  the  Pyrenees.  —  Concerning  Biarritz.  —  Plan  of  enter- 
ing Spain.  —  A  Prudent  Journalist.  —  Untrustworthy  Cou- 
riers. —  Conciliating  Public  Opinion. 

OR  six  weeks  I  had  been  walking  about 
on  the  top  of  the  Pyrenees,  with  a  glass 
of  lukewarm  water  in  one  hand  and  an  umbrella 
in  the  other,  with  long  parentheses  of  going  to 
bed,  and  short  parentheses  of  sitting  down  and 
putting  my  feet  in  a  foot-muff.  It  is  one  of  many 
fictions  that  the  summer  heat  of  the  Pyrenees 
is  excessive,  and  that  rain  is  unknown.  I  ex- 
perienced no  heat,  and  underwent  much  rain. 
It  was  an  exceptional  season.  I  never  went 
anywhere  that  the   season  was   not   exceptional, 


14  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

and  am  convinced  that  in  all  climates  excep- 
tions do  not  prove,  but  are,  the  rule.  Luke- 
warm water,  combined  with  umbrella  and  foot- 
mufFs,  does  not  inebriate,  neither  does  it  cheer. 
In  fact,  another  week  of  it  would  have  driven 
me  to  the  verge  of  a  neighborly  precipice,  per- 
petually inviting  me  to  a  hollow  embrace.  The 
Heights  of  the  Pyrenees  were  the  depths  of  my 
despair,  and  Monsieur  le  Med^cin  at  last  told 
me  I  had  accomplished  my  cure  and  might  go. 
Blessed  release  ! 

But  what  should  I  do  to  restore  my  brain  to 
its  normal  condition1?  I  had  been  at  the  top 
of  things;  I  would  go  to  the  bottom.  "Come 
to  Biarritz,"  urged  French  friends.  Biarritz  was 
as  near  bottom  as  I  could  go  without  drowning 
myself  in  the  Atlantic  Ocean.  As  I  had  just 
kept  my  head  above  water  all  summer,  I  thought 
I  had  nearly  been  drowned  enough.  I  would 
go  to  Biarritz  and  have  it  off  my  mind.     What- 


BY    WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION.  15 

ever  place  you  have  never  seen  is  precisely  the 
place  set  down  as  the  earthly  paradise  by 
those  Superior  Beings  who  have  been  everywhere. 
You  cannot  contradict  them,  though  certain  that 
they  are  as  untrustworthy  as  historians.  They 
know  their  advantage,  and  sit  upon  you  with  an 
amount  of  ecstatic  information  that  makes  you 
loathe  Average  Intelligence,  and  wish  the  com- 
mon variety  of  traveller  as  extinct  as  a  retired 
American  President.  I  had  suffered  from  Biarritz 
for  several  years.  It  was  time  for  the  patient 
worm  to  turn  and  rend  the  travelled  bore. 
"And  when  I  have  digested  Biarritz,"  said  I  to 
myself,  "  I  will  remember  that  the  next  burden 
to  be  lifted  from  my  drooping  shoulders  is  the 
Nile."  There  is  an  aggressiveness,  an  undis- 
guised contempt,  a  pitying  patronage  about  the 
Superior  Being  who  insists  upon  perennially 
sitting  in  Nile  mud,  and  calling  you  from  the 
antipodes  to  admire  his  poses,  that  makes  you 


16  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

thirst  for  human  blood.  The  greatest  trial  of 
Society  is  not  being  able  to  resent  these  under- 
hand attacks  upon  one's  self-esteem.  It  ought 
to  be  a  criminal  offence  for  any  traveller  to  give 
his  experience.  "  What  is  a  prig  1 "  asks  Mrs. 
Vincy,  in  " Middlemarch."  "A  prig,"  replies 
her  son  Fred,  "  is  one  who  makes  you  a  present 
of  his  opinions."  I  am  not  a  prig.  I  never 
make  a  present  of  my  opinions.  I  am  always 
paid    for   them. 

I  started  for  Biarritz,  and  did  what  must  hap- 
pen to  every  traveller  at  least  once  in  his  mad 
career.  I  arrived  unknowingly  at  my  destina- 
tion, and  was  carried  beyond  it.  Nobody  told 
us  where  we  were.  This  is  a  pleasant  peculi- 
arity of  many  Continental  railroads,  so  that  un- 
less you  are  perpetually  on  the  alert,  and  pok- 
ing questions  at  the  guard,  you  are  kept  on  the 
rack.  A  party  of  Spaniards  entered  my  com- 
partment at  a  station  which  seemed  to  me  very 


BY    WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION.  17 

near  Biarritz,  and  so  interested  me  in  their  con- 
versation about  the  war  that  my  eternal  vigi- 
lance —  the  price  of  safety  in  travelling  —  slum- 
bered. 

"You  are  going  to  Spain1?"  asked  the  agree- 
able Spaniard  beside  me,  who  spoke  excellent 
English. 

"No,   to  Biarritz." 

"  But  you  have  gone  too  far.  We  have  just 
left  Biarritz." 

I  was  frightened,  and  am  not  ashamed  of  the 
confession.  Night  had  set  in,  a  storm  of  wind 
and  rain  spread  a  wild  gloom  over  a  country 
of  which  I  had  no  knowledge,  and  there  was 
no  return  train  until  very  late.  Could  I  leave 
the  train  at  the  next  stopping-place  and  take 
a  carriage  1  The  Spaniard  thought  it  very  likely, 
and  out  I  got  at  a  forlorn  station  standing  alone 
in  an  uninhabited  plain.  Making  my  way  through 
peasants  of  both  sexes,  I  descried  an  open  car- 


18  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

riace  at  the  back  door.  Would  the  driver  take 
me  to  Biarritz?  Well,  he  did  n't  know.  He 
could  n't  for  an  hour,  and  he  would  n't  for  less 
than  twenty  francs. 

"  How  many  miles  % " 

"  Nine." 

I  agreed  to  pay  the  amount  asked,  and  off 
went  driver  and  everybody  else,  including  the 
station  officials.  Left  in  solitude,  I  imagined 
how  easy  it  would  be  to  rob  me,  quietly  knock 
me  on  the  head,  and  throw  me  into  the  At- 
lantic. 

"  Suppose  the  driver  does  not  return  V  I 
thought.  But  he  came,  and  when  he  drove  me 
off,  with  raiu  beating  in  my  face,  with  wind 
howling  in  my  ears,  with  restive  horses  and  no 
lantern,  I  saw  such  an  admirable  opportunity 
for  brigands  and  all  the  other  horrors  told  in 
story-books,  that  I  hardly  enjoyed  the  novelty 
of  the    dramatic   situation.     At   times    the   wind 


BY   IF  AY  OF  INTRODUCTION.  19 

almost  blew  the  light  carriage  over.  Then  I 
caught  glimpses  of  the  ocean,  saw  a  revolving 
light  flash  red  and  white,  and  suddenly  we  came 
upon  ox-teams  creeping  along,  that  frightened 
our  horses  into  rearing  and  trying  to  run  "away. 
The  driver  swore  whisperingly  in  choice  Basque, 
and  I  wondered  whether  the  friends  who  had 
promised  to  write  neat  obituaries  would  have 
an  early  opportunity  of  keeping  their  word. 
But  no,  my  time  had  not  come.  I  arrived  alive 
at  the  hotel,  and  when  I  looked  into  the  driv- 
er's face,  which  darkness  had  veiled,  I  beheld 
nothing  worse  than  good-nature  and  shrewd  hon- 
esty. "  If  you  had  screamed,  we  might  have 
had  our  necks  broken,"  was  the  only  remark 
Monsieur  le  Cocher  made  on  receiving  payment 
and  taking  his  departure. 

The  Superior  Being  who  despises  America  and 
only  consents  to  retain  his  nationality  because 
he  is  indebted  to  it  for  fortune  and  the  oppor- 


20  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

tunity  of  associating  with  nobility,  had  told  me 
that  Biarritz  was  the  beau  ideal  of  a  watering- 
place  ;  that  rain  never  fell  there ;  and  that  com- 
paring it  with  any  spot  in  the  United  States 
was  afkin  to  comparing  Hyperion  and  Satyr. 
"The  blood  of  Douglas  can  protect  itself,"  and 
I  do  not  feel  called  upon  to  annihilate  every 
American  who  displays  his  manhood  by  derid- 
ing the  beautiful  and  generous  land  of  his  birth ; 
but  when  I  can  prove  him  to  be  wanting  in 
veracity,  I  am  so  depraved  as  to  rejoice.  This 
moral  obliquity  arises  from  an  artistic  sense  of 
symmetry.  There  should  be  harmony  in  na- 
ture,   human  or   otherwise. 

It  rained  at  Biarritz  as  it  rains  in  our  own 
South.  Great  big  drops  bombarded  street  and 
roof,  as  though  the  clouds  were  waging  a  war 
of  extermination,  and  had  ordered  out  their  en- 
tire light  infantry.  Not  content,  it  hailed,  and 
this  was  on  the  15th  of  September.     How  moist 


BY    WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION.  21 


and  uncomfortable  it  can  be  in  the  Pyrenees, 
High  and  Low,  can  best  be  judged  from  the 
eloquent  fact  that,  in  six  weeks  among  the  moun- 
tains and  three  days  at  Biarritz,  I  wore  out  a 
pair  of  india-rubber  overshoes.  It  was  an  era 
in  my  life.  I  wrote  lines  to  those  overshoes, 
and  buried  them  —  both  lines  and  overshoes  — 
in  the  Atlantic,  while  the  melancholy  wind  sang 
a  miserere;  while  the  waves  in  their  frenzy 
dashed  their  white  locks  against  the  breakers, 
and  heaven  itself  shed  tears. 

So  I  saw  Biarritz  the  beautiful  under  an  um- 
brella. I  saw  it  all  in  two  hours,  and  longed 
to  give  the  Superior  Being  the  benefit  of  my 
observation.  Biarritz  is  a  small  town  of  3,G52 
souls,  that  twenty  years  ago  was  content  to  be 
a  fishing  port,  but  since  the  Empress,  in  1855, 
built  a  big  villa  of  English  brick  at  the  rate  of 
sixpence  apiece,  it  has  become  the  most  fashion- 
able seaside  resort  in  France.     Its  climate,  when 


22  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

it  does  not  blow  and  rain,  is  fine,  and  that  it 
should  be  preferred  to  Boulogne,  or  other  sea- 
ports, is  not  strange.  Everything  is  compara- 
tive in  this  world,  and  Biarritz  is  worth  a  dozen 
Boulognes.  In  mud  and  rain  I  gazed  upon  white- 
washed lodging-houses,  cafes,  cottages,  two  big 
hotels,  and  a  Casino,  where  everybody  goes  to 
meet  everybody  else,  and  read,  or  dance,  or  both. 
Dancing  begins  at  10  p.  m.,  lasts  until  3  or  4 
a.  m.,  when  the  Spanish  women,  who  regulate 
manners,  go  to  bed,  with  the  intention  of  break- 
fasting the  next  afternoon.  I  went  to  the  shore 
and  asked  to  be  shown  the  drive.  There  was 
none.  I  saw  two  good  beaches  and  a  pictu- 
resque cove,  in  the  water  of  which  women  and 
children  were  jumping  up  and  down  under  the 
protection  of  professional  swimmers,  the  under- 
tow being  so  strong  as  to  render  bathing  any- 
thing but  a  thoughtless  amusement.  I  saw  a 
few   fine   cliffs,    forty   or   fifty  feet  high ;    I  saw 


BY   WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION.  23 


rocks  so  porous  as  to  have  been  eaten  away  by 
the  hungry  sea.  Thus  are  formed  odd  little 
coves,  into  which  the  waves  chase  one  another, 
now  in  sport  and  now  in  anger;  sometimes  hug- 
ging and  kissing  a  promontory  so  persistently 
that  it  wakes  up  in  the  morning  to  find  itself 
transformed  into  an  island.  I  saw  the  square 
Villa  Eugenie  looking  like  a  hotel  out  of  employ- 
ment. I  saw  not  a  tree.  I  stood  beside  the 
ruins  of  the  old  fort  or  lighthouse,  l'Atalaye ; 
gazed  over  the  turbulent  expanse  of  the  Bay 
of  Biscay;  and,  had  the  sun  shone,  I  should  have 
seen  the  coast  of  Spain,  with  the  peaks  of  dis- 
tant Sierras  rising  behind  it. 

Here  was  a  fine  view,  the  one  attraction  of 
Biarritz.  After  this  survey  I  thought  of  New- 
port, with  its  charming  harbor  and  dancing  boats, 
its  graceful  yachts  and  stately  men-of-war ;  I 
thought  of  Newport  drives  along  the  sea,  and 
Newport  walks   along   the    cliffs ;    I   thought   of 


24  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

Paradise  with  its  inviting  shade,  and  Purgatory 
with  its  frowning  profile ;  I  thought  of  Newport 
bathing,  soft  and  seductive  as  a  woman  in  love  ; 
I  thought  of  Newport  cottages  and  their  many 
charming  inmates,  and  I  said,  then  and  there, 
not  Biarritz,  Boulogne,  Trouville,  Brighton,  Mar- 
gate, and  Ramsgate  combined  (and  probably  all 
the  other  watering-places  I  have  not  seen),  could 
approach  the  varied  beauty  and  comfort  of  Amer- 
rica's  Isle  of  Peace.  Biarritz  is  good  enough  for 
Europeans  who  have  never  visited  Newport,  and 
for  Superior  Beings  who  are  not  fit  to  live  in  any 
part  of  America  whatsoever. 

I  had  made  a  day's  journey  for  the  sake  of 
two  hours'  disillusion !  It  was  humiliating.  To 
go  through  so  much  to  get  at  so  little !  I  would 
be  revenged.  I  would  go  to  Spain  and  see  Cas- 
telar.  I  would  look  a  Carlist  in  the  face  and 
ask  him  what  century  he  was  living  in.  I  would 
behold  Spaniards  on  their  native  heath,  discover 


BY   WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION.  25 

a  Republican  if  possible,  and  to  one  and  all  I 
would  propound  the  question,  "What  are  you 
going  to  do  about  Cuba1?"  Then  Biarritz  would 
not  be  in  vain.  Warmed  with  expectation,  I 
drippingly  wended  my  way  back  to  the  hotel,  and 
proclaimed  my  resolution.  Friends  shook  their 
heads.  Acquaintances  looked  at  me  in  a  dazed 
frame  of  mind,  as  though  I  had  gleefully  an- 
nounced the  day  of  my  own  funeral.  "  You  will 
be  shot  by  a  chance  bullet,"  said  one.  "  You 
will  be  robbed!"  exclaimed  another:  "allCarl- 
ists  are  brigands."  Whereupon  a  very  stormy- 
browed  Spaniard  looked  over  his  paper  and 
flashed  lightning  from  his  eye.  He  was  a  Carl- 
ist  refugee,  with  neither  the  air  of  a  brigand  nor 
even  that  of  a  murderer.  I  merely  saw  Divine 
Right  written  upon  his  countenance.  He  had 
been  born  two  hundred  years  later  than  his  ideas. 
That  was  all.  Nature  seems  to  delight  in  bring- 
ing the  centuries  face  to  face  that  they  may  test 


26  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

one  another's  strength  by  hand-to-hand  fights. 
She  is  determined  that  the  Past  shall  be  a  thorn 
in  the  flesh  of  the  Present. 

As  usual,  those  persons  were  most  prolific  in 
advice  who  knew  nothing  of  what  they  were  talk- 
ing about.  Had  I  been  going  up  in  the  balloon 
that  accidentally  did  not  cross  the  Atlantic  Ocean, 
I  could  not  have  been  an  object  of  greater  com- 
miseration. Unfortunately,  advice  is  not  always 
information,  and  in  all  Biarritz  there  seemed  to 
be  no  one  who  could  tell  me  the  best  route  to 
Spain.  At  last  a  handsome  English  captain, 
who  had  been  seven  months  with  the  Carlists  in 
the  guise  of  correspondent,  came  to  the  rescue. 
What  did  he  think  of  them  1  He  did  n't  think 
of  them.  They  were  not  worth  thinking  about. 
They  were  a  ragged  lot  of  good-for-nothings,  and 
as  for  fighting  in  Spain,  it  was  a  farce. 

"  Do  they  postpone  a  battle  on  account  of  in- 
clement weather  1 "  I  asked. 


BY    WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION.  27 

"  Well,  yes,  it  is  almost  as  bad  as  that.  Don 
Carlos  is  a  coward.  He  has  n't  slept  since  he 
crossed  the  frontier.  There  never  was  such  a 
ridiculous  war,  and  its  continuance  proves  the 
weakness  of  the  Madrid  government.  But  the 
Carlists  can't  succeed,  you  know.  They  have 
neither  money  nor  arms.  I  recently  heard  a 
French  Legitimist  bet  one  thousand  francs  that 
Don  Carlos  would  be  in  Madrid  in  twelve  months. 
The  bet  was  taken  by  one  of  Don  Carlos's  own 
officers." 

I  told  the  handsome  captain  that  I  was  on 
the  point  of  going  to  Spain.  Could  he  give  me 
any  advice  1  "  Yes.  Don't  go."  It  seemed  to 
him  most  extraordinary  that  a  woman  should 
want  to  do  anything  so  excessively  uncomforta- 
ble. Had  he  been  American  he  would  have  sym- 
pathized with  me  at  once.  Being  English,  it 
took  him  fifteen  minutes  to  get  accustomed  to 
the  idea.     At  the  end  of  that  time  he  regretted 


28  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

his  inability  to  accompany  me  to  Madrid,  for  he 
said  Spaniards  were  great  brutes  and  had  no 
consideration  for  women.  But  I  must  not  go  by 
land.  The  Carlists  might  detain  me  ;  they  might 
confiscate  the  horses  of  the  diligence  and  make 
themselves  obnoxious  in  other  ways.  No,  I  cer- 
tainly must  go  by  sea,  taking  the  good-sized 
steamer  Diamant  that  left  St.  Jean  de  Luz  for 
Santander  three  times  a  week. 

Promising  to  follow  the  captain's  instructions, 
I  went  in  search  of  an  American  consul  and  a 
banker,  both  of  which  conveniences  could  only 
be  found  at  Bayonne,  six  miles  distant.  To  Bay- 
onne  I  drove  in  the  hood  •  of  a  diligence,  climbing 
to  it  by  means  of  a  ladder,  and  sitting  for  an 
hour  with  my  feet  in  an  ever-increasing  stream 
of  water,  it  being  the  peculiarity  of  a  hood  to  keep 
the  rain  off  one's  head  in  order  the  more  surely 
to  submerge  one's  boots.  This  was  discipline,  I 
thought.     This  was  the  necessary  preparation  for 


BY   WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION.  29 

a  campaign  in  Spain.  If  I  could  go  through 
water,  I  could  go  through  fire.  I  do  not  now  see 
the  analogy  between  these  two  elements,  but  at 
the  time  my  reasoning  seemed  incontrovertible. 

Who  was  the  American  Consul  1  There  was  no 
Consul ;  but  there  was  a  Consixlar  Agent.  Our 
representative  was  a  Frenchman  who  could  not 
speak  English.  This  appointment  seemed  as 
wise  as  most  of  our  European  appointments,  and 
I  wondered  what  seafaring  men,  who  are  not  sup- 
posed to  be  linguists,  did  to  make  their  wants 
known.  There  is  probably  an  interpreter ;  but 
why  give  employment  to  men  who  are  not  suffi- 
ciently interested  in  their  business  to  learn  the 
language  of  the  people  they  represent1?  It  is 
not  impossible  to  secure  the  services  of  English- 
speaking  foreigners. 

The  Consular  Agent  would  be  back  directly; 
would  I  wait  1  Sitting  beneath  the  widespread 
wings  of  the  American  Eagle,  I  overheard  a  con- 


30  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

versation  between  an  elderly  Englishman  and  a 
Frenchman.  The  Englishman  was  a  journalist. 
"  I  'm  here  in  the  interest  of  my  paper,"  he  ob- 
served, "  but  I  'm  not  to  be  lured  into  Spain. 
'  If  you  want  your  head  to  remain  on  your  shoul- 
ders, you  '11  keep  out  of  Spain,'  said  the  English 
Consul,  and  he  's  about  right.  Those  Spaniards 
are  always  cutting  and  slashing  one  another. 
They  never  can  be  quiet.  A  good-for-nothing  lot ! 
Why,  they  are  worse  than  the  French  !  "  This 
was  truly  British,  and  the  decorous  silence  that 
followed  was  truly  French.  I  envied  the  journal 
that  possessed  a  correspondent  whose  courage 
was  only  equalled  by  his  courtesy.  At  the  close 
of  this  remark,  the  Consular  Agent  appeared 
upon  the  scene  of  inaction.  Would  he  give  me 
a  passport  ?  No,  he  would  n't,  for  the  excellent 
reason  that  he  could  n't.  Only  ministers  could 
issue  passports.  Moreover,  I  had  no  need  of  a 
passport.     I  was  a  woman.     It  was  satisfactory  to 


BY   WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION.  31 

be  assured  of  my  sex  ;  nevertheless,  in  case  of 
trouble,  I  wanted  a  certificate  of  American  citi- 
zenship. Would  the  Consular  Agent  put  that  im- 
portant fact  down  in  writing,  and  stamp  it  with 
the  seal  of  my  country  1  The  American  Eagle 
almost  flapped  his  wings  and  shrieked  "  E  Pluri- 
bus  Unum,"  in  his  desire  to  protect  me  from  Le- 
gitimist brigands.  More  suspicious,  the  Consular 
Agent,  who  did  not  speak  English,  and  could 
not  tell  an  American  by  the  horrible  nasal  twang 
which,  according  to  Englishmen,  is  peculiar  to 
this  country  (but  which  I  know  prevails  in  sev- 
eral English  counties),  looked  at  me,  studied  my 
letter  of  credit,  and  then  good-naturedly  com- 
plied with  my  request. 

The  Englishman  who  would  not  risk  his  pre- 
cious life  in  Spain  opened  his  mouth  and  eyes, 
and  an  elderly  Frenchman  followed  me  down 
stairs,  making  a  profound  bow  as  I  entered 
the   carriage.     I    was   a   heroine   on   such    small 


32  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

capital  as  to  be  ashamed  of  myself.  I  began 
to  feel  as  though  I  was  drawing  a  hundred  dol- 
lars' interest  on  an  investment  of  fifty  cents; 
nor  did  the  banker  modify  this  sensation,  for  it 
required  quite  twenty  minutes  to  make  him  see 
that  a  woman  could  go  to  Spain.  After  seeing 
it,  he  entered  into  my  plans  with  enthusiasm. 
Money  ]  That,  of  course.  Courier  I  must  have, 
and  he  could  secure  one.  In  five  minutes  a 
telegram  sped  to  Biarritz  for  the  purpose  of 
securing  a  man  Friday.  I  shuddered  at  the 
thought,  for  couriers  are  —  couriers ;  but  I  did 
not  dare  fly  in  the  face  of  public  opinion,  es- 
pecially in  the  face  of  a  genial  banker  who  spoke 
English  like  a  native,  and  took  as  much  inter- 
est in  my  trip  as  though  he  had  known  me  for 
years.  Anything  he  could  do  for  me  he  would, 
and  I  must  write  to  him  if  I  fell  among  thieves. 
I  left  Bayonne  feeling  the  richer  by  one  new 
friend. 


BY    WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION.  33 

With  Spanish  gold  in  my  pocket  I  drove  back 
to  Biarritz,  and  through  the  rain  came  he  who 
was  to  be  my  courier.  With  hat  in  hand  he 
stood  before  me,  and  my  heart  gave  way  at  the 
inspection.  A  short,  fat  man  in  slouchy  clothes, 
with  a  bullet  head,  small,  blinking  black  eyes, 
an  inane  mouth,  and  a  weak  chin.  He  was 
flabby,  mentally,  morally,  and  physically ;  but 
M.  le  Banquier  certified  to  his  honesty,  which, 
in  a  courier,  is  much.  Then,  he  was  considered 
respectable.  He  was  the  father  of  a  family.  I 
have  known  fathers  of  families  who  were  not 
respectable,  but  as  tradition  maintains  the  su- 
periority of  married  over  unmarried  men,  I  do 
not  contradict  it,  whatever  may  be  my  private 
opinion.  The  Flabby  Blinker's  smile  in  itself 
was  enough  to  exasperate  one  less  susceptible 
to  human  influences  than  myself.  There  was  a 
self-satisfaction  and  a  patronage  of  all  creation 
about  it  that  would  have  rasped  an  angel.     The 


34  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

idea  of  such  human  drivel  being  of  any  use  to 
an  American  was  preposterous.  Nevertheless,  if 
anything  happened,  Society  would  say  it  was  be- 
cause I  had  obstinately  refused  to  take  a  courier, 
so  I  stated  my  intentions.  Did  he  speak  Span- 
ish 1  Had  he  any  knowledge  of  Spain  1  The 
Blinker  looked  injured.  Had  he  not  lived  twenty- 
six  years  in  Spain,  did  he  not  speak  the  language 
like  a  native,  and  did  he  not  know  more  about 
the  people  than  they  knew  themselves]  The 
Blinker  assumed  an  air  of  importance  that  would 
have  awed  the  entire  Carlist  army. 

"  Have  no  fear,  madam ;  depend  upon  me,  and 
you  will  see  everything,"  exclaimed  the  Blinker. 

"  Very  well,"  I  said.  "  Go  to  Bayonne,  get 
your  passport,  and  be  prepared  to  start  in  three 
hours." 

The  Blinker's  jaw  dropped.  The  Blinker  said 
he  could  not  get  ready  on  such  short  notice ;  but 
on  being  told  that,   whether  he  could  or  could 


BY    WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION.  35 

not,  he  must,  he  concluded  to  make  a  desperate 
effort,  and  actually  succeeded  in  overcoming  his 
own  inertia.  On  his  return,  I  said  we  would 
leave  immediately  for  St.  Jean  de  Luz,  in  order 
to  take  the  steamer  Diamant  the  next  morning. 

"  Perfectly  useless,  madam,"  responded  the 
Blinker.  "  No  steamers  have  gone  out  for  three 
days.  The  storm  is  not  yet  over,  and  the  agents 
assure  me  there  will  be  no  departures  for  thirty- 
six  hours  at  least." 

I  believed  the  Blinker.  I  did  not  then  know, 
what  experience  has  since  taught  me,  that  the 
thoroughly  flabby  temperament  will  never  tell  the 
truth  unless  bullied  into  it.  To  get  at  facts  re- 
quires more  effort  than  to  draw  on  the  imagina- 
tion. The  flabby  temperament  is  not  malicious ; 
it  is  merely  lazy ;  but  the  effect  is  the  same. 
Every  lie  is  founded  on  the  text,  how  not  to  do 
it ;  the  end  and  aim  being  never  to  do  next 
week  what  can  be  postponed  indefinitely. 


PART  II. 


%.   fopp   to   Ssntanber. 


II. 


A  delusive  Courier.  —  St  Jean  de  Luz.  —  The  Inhabitants  of 
the  Basque  Provinces.  —  Women  who  labor  and  Men  who 
don't. — Discomforts  peculiar  to  the  Bay  of  Biscay. 

WAS  waked  on  the  morning  after  finish- 
ing my  preparations  for  entering  Spain, 
by  a  sunbeam  that  danced  upon  my  nose  and 
pried  open  my  eyes.  On  leaving  my  room  and 
walking  along  the  shore,  I  saw  in  the  distance 
a  steamer.  It  had  evidently  sailed  from  St. 
Jean  de  Luz.  I  knew  then  that  I  was  the  vic- 
tim of  misplaced  confidence.  I  realized  how  Sam 
Weller  felt  after  having  been  trifled  with  by  Job 
Trotter.  I  decided  who  should  command  my 
expedition   into  Spain.      It  was  not  the  Blinker. 


40 


TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 


This  booted  boon  made  his  appearance  at  noon, 
carpet-bag  in  hand,  from  which  he  drew  forth  a 
bottle  of  brandy  and  a  bottle  of  wine.  "  The 
wine   is   for    me,"    he   observed   blandly.    "  You 


"  Nor  do  I  like  chickens  rolled  up  in  dirty  newspapers." 

never  know  what  you  are  drinking  in  Spain." 
(I  had  agreed  to  pay  the  Blinker's  expenses.) 
Then  followed  rolls  of  bread,  sausages,  and  two 
cooked   chickens,  done  up  separately  in  vex*y  inky 


A    VOYAGE   TO   SANTANDER.  41 

newspapers.  I  had  desired  the  Blinker  to  pre- 
pare a  lunch  for  the  steamer.  He  had  done  so 
twenty-four  hours  too  soon,  adding  insult  to  in- 
jury by  packing  it  in  his  bag. 

"  I  never  eat  sausages,"  I  said  with  dignity. 

The  Blinker  smiled,  and  replied  that  it  little 
signified,  as  he  ate  them. 

"Nor  do  I  like  chickens  rolled  up  in  dirty 
newspapers." 

The  Blinker  shrugged  his  shoulders,  remark- 
ing, "  Que  voulez-vous  1  One  cannot  always  have 
what   one   likes.      I  will   eat  one  of  the   chick- 


ens." 


I  counted  twenty  and  kept  my  temper. 

"  Look  at  the  sun,"  I  said. 

"Yes;   a  beautiful  day  for   our  journey,"   re- 
plied the  Blinker  unconcernedly. 

"But  you  said  it  would  rain.     I  have  seen 
steamer  depart  that  I  am  sure  is  the  Diamant." 

"Bien,    madame.      It    does    not    rain.       Tant 


a 


42  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 


mieux.     The   steamer   you   saw  goes   to   Bilbao, 
not  to  Santander.      We  shall  take  Le  Diamant 


to-morrow  morning. 


The  glibness  of  the  Blinker's  tongue  bore 
down  my  own  conviction.  There  was  an  assur- 
ance in  his  statement  that  staggered  me. 

So  we  went  by  rail  to  St.  Jean  de  Luz,  the 
Blinker  in  a  second-class  carriage,  I  in  a  first- 
class  carriage  with  all  the  impedimenta,  and  I 
asked  myself  what  possible  good  or  protection 
that  lazy  courier  was  to  me.  Did  he  assist  me 
out  of  the  carriage1?  No,  indeed.  I  had  per- 
formed a  pas  seul  of  great  agility  before  discov- 
ering the  Blinker  struggling  with  his  own  legs 
that  he  had  ingeniously  contrived  to  get  entan- 
gled with  the  carriage  steps.  He  came  up  pant- 
ing, and  I  then  learned  that  whoever  engages 
a  fat  courier  will  always  be  permitted  to  wait 
on  himself,  will  always  be  late,  and  will  always 
pay  as  much  for  porterage  as  though  the  courier 


A    VOYAGE   TO  SANTANDER.  43 


■were  a  prince  imperial.     Obesity  in  a  courier  is 

* 

a  crime. 

While  the  Blinker  was  rescuing  his  legs  from 
a  predicament  that  no  other  legs  could  have  in- 
vented, I  made  myself  master  of  the  situation 
and  inquired  about  Le  Diamant.  Had  it  not 
sailed  that  morning  with  a  swarm  of  Spanish 
refugees,  who  would  not  trust  themselves  in  the 
small  steamer,  and  would  I  not  be  obliged  to 
wait  several  clays  for  her  return,  as  there  were 
rumors  of  a  quarantine  at  Santander? 

"Do  you  hear]"  I  said,  turning  upon  the 
Blinker.  "The  Diamant  has  gone,  and  I  have 
lost  twenty -four  precious  hours." 

What  difference  did  that  make  1  A  Phoenix 
could  not  rise  half  as  quickly  from  his  own 
ashes  as  the  Blinker  from  his  lies.  He  looked 
as  innocent  as  a  cherub.  "Vraiment!"  quoth 
he,  "then  we  will  await  its  return.  I  have 
lived  twenty-six  years  in  Spain  — " 


44  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

"  We  will  not  await  her  indefinite  return," 
I  replied,  with  a  determination  the  Blinker  had 
not  before  realized.  "  We  will  depart  to-morrow, 
though  we  go  to  sea  in  a  tub." 

The  Blinker  again  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
we  drove  to  Hotel  de  la  Plage,  before  which 
the  ocean  is  ever  knocking,  knocking,  knock- 
ing, asking  to  be  let  in. 

The  day  and  view  were  lovely;  the  town  was 
old,  and,  in  spite  of  indignation,  I  could  have 
been  happy  with  a  civilized  companion ;  but 
with  a  human  porpoise  by  my  side,  as  gifted  in 
expectoration  as  a  Congressional  lobbyist,  how 
could  I  consider  existence  a  blessing?  I  hoped 
that  by  some  impossibility  the  Carlists  would 
seize  him  and  complete  their  ruin  by  putting 
him  in  command  of  a  corporal's  guard.  Mean- 
while it  was  my  duty  to  see  St.  Jean  de  Luz, 
and  I  saw  it.  Having  written  harshly  of  Biar- 
ritz,   I  the  more  gladly  testify  to  the  exceeding 


A    VOYAGE  TO  SANTANDER.  45 

superiority  of  its  venerable  neighbor.  Had  the 
Empress  Eugenie  possessed  an  artistic  eye  and 
a  poetic  soul,  she  would  have  revived  the  glories 
of  St.  Jean  de  Luz,  rather  than  have  founded 
the  fashion  of  Biarritz  ;  but  parvenue  in  all  things, 
she  prefei-red  new  whitewash  to  old  wainscoting. 
Once  a  thriving  port,  sending  vessels  regularly 
to  the  whale-fishery,  St.  Jean  de  Luz  now  lives 
upon  memories  and  —  Spaniards.  The  former 
are  permanent,  the  latter  come  with  the  bath- 
ing season,  the  French  town  being  cleaner,  and 
having  better  hotels,  than  have  the  Peninsula's 
seaside  resorts.  With  a  fine  bay,  a  sti*ong  sea- 
wall, a  large  mole  that  adds  as  much  beauty  as 
safety  to  the  port,  with  the  river  Nivelle,  that 
for  four  miles  is  tidal  and  well  adapted  to  boat- 
ing, with  pretty  environs  possessing  far  more 
shade  than  Biarritz,  with  several  mountain  ex- 
cursions, St.  Jean  de  Luz  ought  to  be  most  pop- 
ular.     That   it   is   not,   only  proves   human  sub- 


46  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

serviency  to  the  dictates  of  a  silly  woman,  who 
is  all  the  sillier  for  being  an  Empress.  Power 
frequently  renders  wise  heads  foolish,  and  weak 
heads  mad. 

The  old  town  charms  the  artist  by  its  quaint 
houses,  arrayed  in  as  many  colors  as  Joseph's 
coat,  with  here  queer  gables,  and  there  little 
coquettish  balconies,  over  which  lean  buxom 
Spanish  women,  doing  nothing  in  the  world  but 
languishing  to  the  andante  accompaniment  of 
their  fans.  In  the  principal  Place  stands  the 
Maison  Lohobiague,  or  Chateau  de  Louis  XIV., 
where  the  Grande  Monarque  stopped  before  and 
after  his  marriage  with  Maria  Theresa,  Infanta 
of  Spain.  Near  by  is  the  church  in  which  the 
royal  marriage  was  celebrated,  only  forty  years 
after  the  landing  of  our  Pilgrims, — a  church  ex- 
ternally grim  and  quaint,  internally  serving  the 
Loi*d  in  very  gaudy  but  shabby  tinsel.  Wher- 
ever I  turned,   in   the   old   streets  or  the   new, 


A    VOYAGE  TO  SANTANDER.  47 

I  met  young  Spanish  girls  with  expectation  in 
their  eyes,  as  though  waiting  for  news  from 
their  fathers,  brothers,  or  lovers,  fighting  the 
bad  fight  of  Don  Carlos,  the  Pretender.  Some, 
forgetful,  were  riding  donkeys  that  would  not 
go ;  others  were  buying  goats'  milk  of  the  old 
woman  who  kept  her  goats  in  the  Place  Louis 
XIV.  Neither  men  nor  women  seemed  to  be 
borne  down  by  the  dissensions  of  their  country, 
and  I  then  and  there  decided  to  bear  the  woes 
of  Spain  with  the  equanimity  of  her  own  people. 
If  they  did  not  tear  their  hair,  why  should  1 1 
Perhaps  one  reason  for  not  doing  so  is  because 
they  have  so  little.  Spaniards  are  the  most  bald- 
headed  of  men  and  the  most  false-haired  of  wo- 
men. Germany  and  the  South  of  France  adorn 
the  civilized  world  with  nature's  capillary  at- 
traction, yet  supply  so  fails  to  satisfy  demand 
that  erelong  beauty  may  be  reduced  to  the 
poet's  line,  and  draw  with  but  a  single  hair. 


48  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

Was  I  not  amused  that  day  at  dinner  1  The 
Blinker  told  me  I  should  not  have  enough  to  eat 
unless  he  ordered  a  private  table.  I  am  not 
proud,  if  I  am  poor ;  and  heretofore  the  table 
d7h6te  had  been  sufficiently  good.  But  when  you 
travel  with  a  courier,  your  first  duty  is  to  re- 
spect his  feelings.  Nothing  degrades  you  so 
much  in  his  eyes  as  the  ignoble  practice  of  econ- 
omy. Couriers  and  economy  assimilate  about  as 
readily  as  oil  and  water.  While  giving  me  in- 
structions the  Blinker  looked  as  if  to  say,  "Re- 
member I  've  a  reputation  to  maintain,  and  if 
you  disgrace  me  by  sitting  at  table  with  other 
people,  you  will  be  sorry  you  were  ever  born." 
Not  wishing  to  deplore  my  birth,  I  assented  to 
his  proposal.  Ushered  into  the  general  dining- 
room,  I  was  shown  to  a  small  table,"  while  the 
other  guests  seated  themselves  at  the  long  one. 
It  startled  me  to  see  the  Blinker  place  himself 
among  them  in  a  position  where  he  could  keep 


A    VOYAGE   TO  SANTANDER.  49 

an  eye  on  me.  It  was  impossible  not  to  admire 
his  sublime  coolness.  He  intended  to  eat,  drink, 
and  be  merry  at  my  expense,  for  to-morrow  he 
would  return  to  his  own  bread-aud-cheese. 

Nodding  approvingly,  as  though  my  conduct 
so  far  were  worthy  of  him,  the  Blinker  led  the 
conversation.  "  I  have  lived  in  Spain  twenty- 
six  years,"  he  began.  What  followed  I  could 
not  hear ;  but  I  remarked  the  perfect  manners 
of  the  Spaniards,  and  contrasted  them  with  Eng- 
lish and  Americans  under  a  like  infliction.  The 
Blinker  ought  to  have  been  thrown  out  of  the 
window.  His  nearest  neighbor  was  the  Spaniard 
who  had  rescued  me  on  the  occasion  of  my 
being  carried  beyond  Biarritz.  The  world  is 
small.  Be  introduced  to  a  man  on  the  equator, 
and  you  will  meet  him  at  the  poles.  On  my 
apologizing  later  to  my  rescuer  for  the  Blinker's 
impudence,  he  replied  :  "  I  expect  no  more  from 
people  than  they  can  give.  I  always  know  a  frog 
3  D 


50  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

when  I  see  it,  though  the  creature  endeavor  to 
be  an  ox.  Madam,  your  courier  is  a  fool.  In 
this  he  is  not  singular.  Madam,  he  has  sloven- 
ly manners.  In  these  he  is  unique."  After  this 
concise  prelude,  we  discussed  Spain.  "  Madam," 
continued  the  Spaniard,  "  you  will  be  disgusted, 
because  you  are  an  American,  and  will  wonder 
why  we  talk  so  much  and  do  so  little.  This  is 
our  habit,  and  it  will  take  a  long  education  to 
change  what  has  become  second  nature.  The 
Carlists  are  poor  creatures,  but  the  creatures  of 
the  Basque  Provinces  are  poorer.  They  are  as 
ignorant  as  ignorance  ;  they  can  neither  read  nor 
write  ;  the  language  they  speak  is  not  a  written 
language ;  they  have  no  newspapers ;  they  are 
superstitious ;  they  are  priest-ridden,  and  have 
been  taught  to  consider  Don  Carlos  a  part  of  their 
religion.  Don  Carlos  cannot  succeed  in  ascend- 
ing the  throne,  but  he  can  succeed  in  prolonging 
a  civil  war  indefinitely.     For  myself,  I  belong  to 


A    VOYAGE   TO   SANTANDER.  51 

no  party.  Theoretically  I  believe  in  a  republic, 
but  the  Spaniards  are  not  republican.  They  are 
a  brutal  people,  and  too  ignorant  to  know  now 
what  to  do  with  liberty.  Castelar  is  a  pure  man 
and  a  great  orator,  but  he  is  not  equal  to  the 
situation.  I  admire  him,  but  do  not  believe  in 
him.  You  will  see.  The  Alphonsists  are  most 
likely  to  succeed.  A  constitutional  monarchy  is 
best  suited  to  the  requirements  of  Spain."  Most 
astounding  are  these  Spaniards.  In  one  breath 
they  proclaim  themselves  degraded  bej^ond  re- 
demption ;  in  the  next  they  are  the  conquerors 
of  the  world,  and  who  dare  question  their  great- 
ness ]  They  are  neither  the  one  nor  the  other. 
Out  of  respect  to  habit  I  went  to  bed  that 
night,  but  the  wild  waves  were  putting  so  many 
questions  to  me  that  it  was  impossible  to  sleep, 
and  at  2  a.  m.  a  deep-voiced  porter  aroused  me 
in  a  language  I  did  not  understand.  The  Basque 
dialect  combines  the  vices  of  the  French,  Italian, 


52  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN 


and  Spanish,  with  no  virtues  whatever.  To  the 
ear  it  is  intolerable ;  to  the  understanding  it  is 
incomprehensible.  Not  until  recently  have  the 
Basque  schools  been  abolished,  and  not  for  an- 
other generation  will  the  inhabitants  of  this  prov- 
ince speak  French.  I  made  an  elaborate  toilet 
by  the  light  of  the  one  candle  for  which  the 
plundered  traveller  pays  a  franc.  Descending,  I 
found  men  and  women  sitting  on  trunks,  munch- 
ing dry  bread,  awaiting  the  omnibus  that  was  to 
convey  us  to  the  steamer.  The  Blinker  was 
drowning  himself  in  coffee  that  he  had  consider- 
ately ordered  for  me.  I  took  none,  because  I 
did  not  care  to  contribute  more  to  the  Atlantic 
than  absolutely  became  a  woman  who,  the  oftener 
she  goes  to  sea,  the  more  she  has  reason  to  wish 
herself  on  dry  land.  A  horse  knows  perfectly 
well  when  riders  are  afraid  of  him.  Equally  dis- 
cerning is  the  ocean.  Ever  since  I  criticised  the 
Atlantic,  it  has  resented  my  remarks  in  the  most 


A    VOYAGE  TO   SANTANDER.  53 

underhanded  manner.     I   knew  how  the  Bay  of 
Biscay  would  serve  me,  and  prepared. 

In  rain,  gloom,  and  darkness  we  groped  our 
way  to  the  omnibus  that  arrived  an  hour  late. 
The  steamer  ought  to  have  sailed  before  we  left 
the  hotel,  and  when  I  expressed  concern,  the  pro- 
prietor stated  that  the  steamer  never  started 
until  it  got  ready,  and  when  it  got  ready  de- 
pended entirely  upon  circumstances.  This  was 
soothing  information.  Jog,  jog,  jog,  went  the 
omnibus  through  town,  through  suburbs,  beside 
the  sea,  through  muddy,  dismal  roads,  with  never 
a  glimpse  of  the  steamer,  until  everybody  be- 
came nervous  and  hung  more  or  less  out  of  the 
windows.  In  moments  of  suspense,  thrusting 
the  head  out  of  the  window  relieves  the  mind 
and  seems  to  facilitate  elucidation.  It  never 
occurred  to  the  Spaniards  to  question  the  driver, 
and  as  I  had  hired  a  man  to  talk  for  me,  I  'd 
have  died  rather  than  have  gratified  my  curiosity. 


54  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

We  overtook  a  lazier  omnibus,  and  then  we  all 
breathed  freely.  I  never  before  knew  how  much 
comfort  could  be  extracted  from  the  sight  of  an 
omnibus.  At  last  we  stopped  on  a  long  pier 
that  did  not  seem  to  be  in  any  business,  but 
had  moved  out  of  town  for  the  purpose  of  lead- 
ing a  quiet  life  and  going  fishing. 

Landing  in  mud,  we  were  surrounded  by  strap- 
ping young  women,  all  clamoring  for  our  trunks. 
In  this  remote  spot  women  are  porters,  and  men 
look  on  approvingly.  The  Blinker  appeared  to 
be  an  old  acquaintance.  "  What,  Jeannette," 
he  said  to  a  sturdy,  good-looking,  broad-shoul- 
dered girl,   "  you   still   here  1 " 

"And,  pray,  why  should  n't  I  be?"  she  re- 
torted. 

"  You  ought  to  have  been  married,  Jeannette." 

"  Married  !  Do  you  take  me  for  a  baby  1 
Don't  you  know  /  know  that  marrying  would 
only  make  matters  worse,  for  then  I  'd  be  obliged 


A    VOYAGE   TO  SANTANDER. 


55 


to  take  care  of  two  persons  instead  of  one  1 
Now  I  am  free  and  I  can  do  as  I  like.  Catch 
me  marrying !  "     After   which  Jeannette    caught 


"  Catch  me  marrying ! " 

np  my  trunk  as  though  it  were  a  light  basket, 
balanced  it  on  her  head,  and  strode  off  swing- 
ing her  arms,  laughing  defiance  to  all  men. 


56  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

Amazed  as  I  was  at  the  civilization  which 
turns  women  into  men,  I  was  delighted  to  note 
the  physical  strength  of  that  score  of  girls. 
Jeannette  could  walk  I  don't  know  how  many 
kilometres,  with  I  don't  know  how  many  kilo- 
grammes on  her  well-shaped  head.  All  gave 
the  lie  direct  to  the  miserable  sentimental  the- 
ory that  women  are  born  to  be  sickly  dolls. 
If  twenty  Basque  girls  can  rival  men  in  endur- 
ance, millions  of  American  girls  can  be  made 
as  healthy  as  they  are  beautiful ;  but  this  ref- 
ormation will  not  come  to  pass  in  the  days  of 
hot-house  rearing,  heavy  skirts,  tight  lacing, 
pointed  heels,  hot  bread,  and  confectionery.  Op- 
ponents of  Women's  Rights  fear  that,  in  obtain- 
ing political  power,  women  will  lose  their  charms. 
I  have  never  found  that  treating  women  as  in- 
tellectual, responsible  beings  deprived  them  of 
one  iota  of  beauty  or  fascination ;  but  I  have 
always    found    that    man's    regarding   woman    as 


A    VOYAGE   TO  SANTANDER.  57 

his  equal  (if  not  superior)  in  physique,  and 
demanding  from  her  the  work  of  a  horse,  quickly 
destroyed  all  symmetry  of  form.  In  the  United 
States,  where  women  enjoy  the  greatest  freedom, 
they  are  the  most  feminine.  Treated  as  though 
possessed  of  man's  muscle,  without  his  brains, 
the  peasant  women  of  Europe  are  the  most 
masculine  of  their  sex.  The  right  to  labor  with- 
out the  right  to  think  annihilates  womanly  in- 
spiration. To  transform  women  into  beasts  of 
burden  —  only  that  and  nothing  more  —  is  to 
spoil  one  sex  and  travesty  the  other. 

The  Blinker  entertained  so  great  an  admira- 
tion for  the  women  porters  that  he  entirely  re- 
lieved himself  of  bundles.  It  was  pure  self- 
sacrifice  on  his  part,  —  and  I  paid  for  it.  The 
porters  were  paid  for  carrying  our  luggage  to 
the  small  boats  plying  between  pier  and  steam- 
er, somebody  was  paid  for  telling  where  we  were 
to  sit,  and  the  boatmen  were  paid  for  rowing. 
3* 


58  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

The  Blinker  scolded,  declared  it  an  imposition, 
and  then  showered  silver  about  with  that  gen- 
erosity which  invariably  possesses  people  who 
spend  the  money  of  others.  As  we  neared  the 
steamer  my  desire  to  visit  Spain  was  extremely 
slight.  Had  I  been  at  Biarritz  I  should  have 
found  the  best  reasons  for  going  north.  The 
vessel,  the  Four  Friends,  bore  a  grimly  hu- 
morous misnomer.  I  counted  fifty  passengers, 
and  saw  accommodations  on  deck  for  a  dozen, 
and  how  we  were  to  go  on  board  was  obscured 
in  mystery.  There  was  no  ladder  ;  the  boat 
danced  about  as  if  it  were  over  boiling  water; 
the  sailors  screamed,  flourished  grappling-irons 
over  our  heads,  and  told  us  to  swing  ourselves 
on  deck  with  a  rope  fastened  at  the  steamer's 
side.  Swing  ourselves  on  deck !  Did  they  take 
us  for  monkeys  1  A  woman  may  be  as  agile  as 
a  fawn,  and  yet,  in  cumbrous  clothing,  display 
the  awkwardness  of  an  elephant.      Then,  too,  a 


A    VOYAGE   TO   SANTANDER.  59 


woman  would  rather  part  with  her  best  friend 
than  her  dignity,  and  no  dignity  could  swing 
over  that  horrible  deck,  which  was  so  near  and 
yet  so  far.  0  Spain,  Spain,  what  crime  did 
I  not  feel  like  committing  in  thy  name !  To 
have  blown  up  the  Four  Friends  would  have 
settled  the  matter;  but  I  only  blew  up  the 
Blinker,  who  very  nearly  dropped  me  into  the 
water,  when,  between  climbing,  leaping,  and 
scrambling,  I  performed  a  series  of  gymnastics 
as  difficult  to  conceive  as  they  were  to  execute. 
The  other  women  were  hauled  up  by  human 
derricks. 

If,  as  Ruskin  maintains,  dirt  be  an  element 
of  the  picturesque,  the  Four  Friends  would 
have  thrilled  him  with  delight.  Had  there 
been  as  much  steamer  as  dirt,  the  Great  East- 
ern would  have  had  a  dangerous  rival.  We 
walked  over  dirt,  sat  on  it ;  and  when  I  de- 
scended   a    steep,  grimy   ladder  to   inspect   what 


60  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN 

was  courteously  called  the  cabin,  I  saw  a  con- 
tacted sty  that  none  but  human  pigs  could  for 
one  moment  have  endured.  Compared  with  it, 
the  worst  steamer  crossing  the  English  Channel 
is  Paradise.  The  captain  was  a  thin  Spaniard, 
with  a  dark,  greasy  complexion,  dark,  greasy 
hair,  nails  and  teeth  in  deep  mourning,  and  a 
short,  bristling  black  beard,  that  made  him  look 
like  the  first  murderer  in  Macbeth.  The  crew 
were  miracles  of  untidiness  and  deformity,  the 
most  horrible  of  whom  —  a  boy  with  one  eye 
and  a  deep  gash  in  the  place  of  the  other  — 
performed  the  pleasing  duties  of  steward  with 
the  deftness  of  a  hippopotamus. 

"There  is  nothing  like  touching  the  world  at 
all  points,"  I  said  to  my  disgusted  self,  as,  en- 
veloped in  a  waterproof,  I  curled  up  on  the 
least  dirty  bench  to  be  found.  The  rain  pelted 
upon  the  dilapidated  awning  drawn  over  the 
deck,  small  streams  finding  their  way  down  un- 


A    VOYAGE   TO  SANTANDER. 


61 


suspecting  backs  and  into  helpless  cavpet-bags. 
There  being  few  seats,  men  and  women  extended 
themselves    upon   the   damp   deck,    and,    embra- 


"I  curled  up  on  the  least  dirty  bench." 


cing  tin  bowls,  groaned  in  chorus  as  soon  as 
the  Four  Friends  weighed  anchor.  Every- 
body was  sick,  —  everybody  but  the  Blinker ;  no- 
body offered   to  assist  anybody ;   several  women 


62  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

shrieked,  several  men  howled,  and  one  or  two 
rolled  about  in  agony.  The  few  French  on 
board  suffered  in  silence.  They  never  forgot  to 
be  decent.  Their  neighbors  could  not  remember 
what  they  appeared  never  to  have  known. 

In  this  pandemonium  of  dirt  the  greasy  cap- 
tain wandered  about,  talking  at  the  rate  of  in- 
calculable knots  an  hour.  Had  his  tongue  been 
our  motor  power,  we  should  have  arrived  at 
Santander  before  leaving  St.  Jean  de  Luz.  Un- 
fortunately, it  could  be  put  to  no  such  good  use. 
The  captain  merely  succeeded  in  making  us  a 
little  more  wretched  than  we  otherwise  should 
have  been.  "  I  '11  do  all  I  can  for  you !  I  '11 
do  all  I  can  for  you ! "  he  exclaimed,  again  and 
again,  in  a  superfluity  of  Spanish  that  would 
have  filled  columns.  "  I  '11  do  all  I  can  for 
you ;  but  I  'm  greatly  afraid  I  can  do  nothing. 
In  all  probability  we  shall  be  detained  in  quar- 
antine." 


A    VOYAGE   TO  SANTANDER.  63 

"  111  the  name  of  common  sense,  why  % "  I 
asked,   with  a  terror-stricken  countenance. 

"Well,  you  see,  there  is  cholera  in  Paris." 

"  But  we  are  not  from  Paris.  There  is  not  a 
passenger  who  is  not  from  the  South  of  France." 

"  It  does  n't  make  any  difference,"  continued 
the  voluble  captain,  who  went  from  one  to  an- 
other, sawing  the  air,  and  diversifying  the  en- 
tertainment by  flinging  language  at  the  ghastly- 
eyed  steward-boy,  and,  during  the  flinging,  drink- 
ing native  wine  that  had  a  wonderful  effect  in 
enriching  his  vocabulary.  From  time  to  time 
the  Blinker  disappeared,  returning  with  his  mouth 
full,  by  which  I  knew  he  had  been  eating,  in 
spite  of  his  assurance  that  he  was  very  ill,  but 
had  too  much  self-conti'ol  to  express  his  emo- 
tion. Finally  the  Blinker  came  to  me  with  a 
small  newspaper-bundle,  saying  that  if  I  'd  eat 
a  little  I  should  feel  better. 

"Eat  what?"  I  asked. 


64  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

"  Why,  the  chicken,  of  course ;  the  chicken 
I   cooked  at   Biarritz." 

A  stale  chicken  done  up  in  newspaper,  that 
for  two  days  had  been  stowed  away  in  the  Blin- 
ker's carpet-bag.  This  was  the  delicacy  offered 
to  a  deathly  sea-sick  woman ! 

"  Throw  that  chicken  overboard  ! "  I  gasped 
wildly. 

"  Bien,  madame,"  replied  the  Blinker. 

Would  anything  disconcert  that  exasperating 
courier  1  Overboard  went  the  unprofitable  chicken, 
and  the  sea  made  one  mouthful  of  it.  Had  the 
Blinker  and  the  captain  gone  after  it,  I  should 
have  felt  better;  but  no,  the  Blinker  patron- 
ized the  universe  with  his  smiling  self-satisfac- 
tion, and  the  captain,  who  was  his  own  perpet- 
ual encore,  repeated  quarantine  variations.  And 
to  such  an  audience  !  In  spite  of  their  bilious- 
ness they  were  the  right  people  in  the  right 
place.     No  dirt  could  shock  them,  nor  wagging 


A    VOYAGE   TO  SANTANDER.  65 

tongue  enrage.  The  entire  cargo  seemed  to  be 
attacked  by  hydrophobia,  shirts  and  pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs having  it  in  the  most  virulent  form. 
"Shall  I  too  grow  rabid,"  I  asked  my  inner 
self  with  horror,  "here  on  the  dreadful  'Bay 
of  Biscay  0,'  that  terror  of  mariners  about 
which  tenors  sing  sepulchrally  1 "  My  inner  self 
advised  me  to  be  calm,  and,  as  the  sun  came 
out  when  we  steamed  into  the  port  of  San  Se- 
bastiano,  lighting  up  the  lofty  fort,  burnishing 
the  waves,  that,  until  then,  had  been  a  spiteful, 
jealous  green,  it  began  to  dawn  upon  me  that 
the  world  was  not  entirely  composed  of  chop- 
ping seas. 

Nobody  left  the  boat  at  San  Sebastiano,  and 
several  hydrophobiac  patients  came  aboard.  This 
made  bad  worse ;  but,  after  attaining  a  certain 
amount  of  misery,  it  matters  little  how  much 
more  is  inflicted.  There  are  moral  as  well  as 
physical  gymnastics.     The   athlete    carries   upon 


66  TEN  DA  YS  IN  SPAIN. 

his  shoulders  one,  two,  or  three  men  with  almost 
equal  ease.  Being  ahle  to  carry  the  first  man 
tells  the  training  of  the  muscles.  Bearing  one 
mountain  of  misery  denotes  the  capacity  to  en- 
dure Pelion  piled  upon  Ossa.  The  additional 
hydrophobiac  patients  retired  to  the  baggage, 
and  roosted  on  the  protruding  ends  of  trunks. 
At  least  they  roosted  after  we  sailed.  Prior  to 
that,  we  underwent  an  infliction  of  custom-house 
officers.  Why,  no  one  could  tell,  as  no  one  went 
ashore.  Pei'haps  the  officers  needed  a  little  rel- 
axation. The  mere  fact  of  there  being  no  rea- 
son for  doing  a  thing  appears  to  be  the  very  best 
reason  —  in  Spain  —  why  it  should  be  done  at 
all  hazards. 

But  no  filthy  steamer,  no  Spaniard,  can  de- 
stroy the  interest  of  the  Spanish  coast.  In  soli- 
tary beauty,  —  almost  as  lifeless  as  when  the 
world  began,  —  the  Spanish  Pyrenees,  massed 
against  the  sky,  surge  along  the  coast  in  loftier, 


A    VOYAGE   TO  SANTANDEli.  67 

grander  billows  than  any  that  the  ocean  invokes. 
Cruel  as  they  are  beautiful,  they  excite  fear  while 
extorting  admiration,  for  harbors  are  few  and  the 
mariner  knows  but  too  well  what  dangers  lurk 
at  their  feet.  Playing  hide  and  seek  on  their 
dimpled,  many-colored  sides,  the  sun  makes 
charming  pictures  for  a  brilliant  colorist,  yet  an 
artist  of  sensibility  would  lose  heart,  for  what  is 
more  chilling  than  inhospitable  beauty  1  "  You 
are  very  fine,"  I  said.  "  I  am  glad  I  have  seen 
you,  but  you  are  treacherous.  Even  in  sunlight 
you  dazzle  without  warming,  and  even  in  good 
weather  I  would  not  be  at  your  mercy.  If  you 
dumbly  indicate  the  character  of  the  people 
whose  northern  coast  you  defend  so  successfully, 
then  shall  I  be  as  glad  to  see  the  last  of  them 
as  I  am  to  see  the  last  of  you." 

The  last,  however,  was  long  in  coming.  Not 
until  eight  in  the  evening  did  we  creep  up  the 
beautiful  harbor  of  Santander,  welcomed  by  the 


68  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

twinkling  lights  of  piers  and  vessels,  and  so  long 
undisturbed  in  our  progress  that  we  began  to 
think  the  captain's  quarantine  ravings  as  mythi- 
cal as  Spanish  unity.  I  was  picturing  a  com- 
fortable supper  in  a  comfortable  room,  the  floor 
of  which  had  no  tendency  to  turn  upside  down, 
when  the  Four  Friends  suddenly  stopped.  Did 
it  mean  quarantine1?  The  captain's  arms  flew 
round  like  a  windmill  in  a  hurricane,  but  with 
no  benefit  to  our  curiosity.  Finally,  a  long-boat 
came  to  us,  and  a  man  with  a  lantern  talked  to 
our  captain,  who,  on  being  asked  for  a  list  of  the 
passengers,  could  not  give  it.  Had  he  not  given 
one  list  to  the  authorities  at  San  Sebastiano  1  And 
how  could  he  make  out  another  when  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done  1  Below  he  went,  and  there 
we  sat,  famished,  cold,  damp,  weary,  waiting  for 
what  ought  to  have  been  ready  at  once.  "  Was 
it  quarantine  or  not?"  we  asked,  as  the  boat 
pushed  off.     "Quien  sabe!"     There  we  brooded 


A    VOYAGE   TO  SANTANDER.  69 

another  hour  before  official  word  came.  Yes,  we 
were  doomed  to  quarantine.  But  when  and  how 
much  of  us?  Again  the  boat  disappeared,  and 
we  sat  in  moist  darkness  until  the  clock  struck 
ten.  I  had  prepared  for  bandits,  Carlists,  and 
stray  bullets,  not  petty  annoyances,  the  endur- 
ance of  which  is  no  heroism,  and  the  relation 
of  which  makes  no  particular  hair  stand  on  end. 
That  going  to  Spain  in  war-time  should  be  very 
like  a  lecturing  tour  in  my  own  enlightened  coun- 
try—  only  worse  —  struck  me  as,  to  say  the 
least,  unromantic. 

Upon  the  return  of  the  officials,  we  were  told 
to  go  ashore  with  ourselves  and  our  hand-bags, 
but  to  leave  all  trunks  on  board.  Thankful  for 
release  on  any  terms,  we  dropped  ourselves  into 
long-boats,  put  our  feet  into  unseen  pools  of 
water,  and  were  rowed  to  the  nearest  pier,  where 
men  with  torches  were  shouting  about  nothing, 
as  usual,  and  women,  that   might  as  well  have 


70  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPJIN. 

been  men,  shrieked  for  the  right  to  take  our 
money  by  carrying  our  bags.  The  Blinker  paid 
the  rowers,  then  paid  a  woman  for  hauling  him 
up  the  pier,  then  paid  another  woman  for  ex- 
tending the  same  civility  to  me,  then  he  engaged 
boys  to  carry  what  he  ought  to  have  carried 
himself,  and  then  we  went  in  search  of  a  lodg- 
ing. The  night  was  beautiful.  All  Santander 
swarmed  upon  the  quay,  which  is  the  principal 
business  street,  and  many  a  curious  glance 
greeted  us  as  we  wandered  from  hotel  to  hotel. 
Refugees  had  taken  possession  of  every  place, 
and  it  was  not  until  after  recourse  to  eloquence 
that  a  French  maitre  d' hotel  gazed  upon  me  com- 
passionately, and  found  a  room,  previously  swear- 
ing to  a  dozen  other  travellers  that  if  his  own 
grandmother  had  descended  from  heaven  to 
pass  the  night  at  Santander,  he  could  offer  her 
no  more  generous  hospitality  than  a  peg  on 
which  to  hang  herself.     "  I  am  very  grateful  to 


A    VOYAGE   TO  SANTANDER. 


71 


you  for  treating  me  better  than  your  revered 
grandmother,"  I  said,  when  the  chef  showed  me 
to  a  forlornly  thin,  tall  room. 


"  Madam,  I  never  liked  my  grandmother  I  " 

"Madam,"    replied    the  chef,    "I   never   liked 
my  grandmother,"  and,  with  a  bow,  retired. 


PART    III. 


Jrom  Sanianirw  in  Utaforifc. 


III. 


An  Episode  of  Spanish  Quarantine.  —  Fumigating  an  Empty- 
Trunk.— The  Blinker  every  Inch  Himself.  —  Incidents  of 
Railroad  Travelling. 


PAIN  acquaints  one  with  strange  bed- 
fellows. There  is  an  untiring  industry 
about  them  worthy  of  a  better  cause.  Would 
that  the  Republic's  Minister  of  Finance  and 
its  commanding  generals  possessed  the  activity 
of  its  fleas  !  Why  will  Nature  be  such  a  spend- 
thrift1? Were  she  to  economize  on  fleas,  there 
might  be  sufficient  energy  in  the  Peninsula  to 
start  the  trains  punctually  and  occasionally  turn 
promises  into  deeds.  Why  there  should  be  so 
many  Spanish  fleas  weird  William    P>lake  would 


76  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

quickly  tell  us.  When  completing  his  curious 
drawing  of  the  Ghost  of  a  Flea,  the  lively  ghost 
informed  Blake  that  all  fleas  were  inhabited  by 
the  souls  of  such  men  as  were  by  nature  blood- 
thirsty to  excess,  and  were  therefore  providen- 
tially confined  to  the  size  and  form  of  insects. 
With  this  strange  light  thrown  upon  Spain's 
largest  population,  it  is  most  wasteful  manage- 
ment that  fails  to  utilize  fleas  for  war  purposes. 
Placed  at  the  head  of  the  army,  they  would  soon 
drive  the  Carlists  howling  into  the  Bay  of  Bis- 
cay. 

I  doubt  whether  the  Blinker's  repose  were 
more  tranquil  than  my  own,  for  at  an  early  hour 
he  informed  me  through  the  keyhole  that  orders 
had  been  issued  to  detain  the  luggage  of  the 
Four  Friends  three  days  in  quarantine.  "  So, 
madam,  we  must  remain  here  for  your  trunk. 
My  carpet-bag  has  been  given  up." 

"  Three  days  !     Never.     Three  hours.    We  will 


FROM  SANTANDER    TO  MADRID.  11 

take  the  train  that  goes  to  Madrid  at  2  p.  M. 
Meanwhile,  we  will  go  to  the  health  authorities 
and  demand  my  property." 

The  Blinker  muttered  something  in  opposition. 
He  always  was  In  opposition.  He  contradicted 
by  impulse.  That  a  woman,  not  yet  a  grand- 
mother, should  have  "  views,"  seemed  to  him 
revolutionary.  Off  we  tramped  at  nine  o'clock, 
without  breakfast,  with  a  small  beggar  to  show 
us  the  route.  He  was  an  independent  beggar. 
Though  politely  requested  to  make  haste,  our 
ragged  cicerone  sauntered,  regardless  of  his  fol- 
lowers, who  were  somewhat  amazed  when  he  sud- 
denly disappeared.  Where  had  he  gone  1  Into 
a  shop  to  buy  some  paper  with  which  to  make 
a  cigarette  that,  on  his  return,  he  slowly  puffed 
in  our  faces.  It  struck  me  as  the  coolest  per- 
formance at  which  I  had  ever  assisted.  It  also 
struck  me  as  the  solution  to  several  Spanish 
problems. 


78  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

Santander  is  not  a  -big  town,  otherwise  we 
might  be  wandering  about  to  this  hour.  When 
cigarettes  are  to  be  smoked  with  tender  apprecia- 
tion, distances  become  great ;  but  we  found  the 
sanitary  bureau  and  harangued  the  mighty  poten- 
tate thereof.  I  was  an  American  whose  stay  in 
Spain  was  limited  to  a  few  days.  Could  I  have 
my  trunk  1 

"  No." 

"Why  not  V 

"  Because  there  is  cholera  in  Paris  1 " 

"  But  I  've  not  come  from  Paris,  nor  have  any 
other  passengers." 

"  It  matters  little.  We  are  held  responsible 
for  the  introduction  of  cholera  into  Spain,  and 
every  province  exercises  its  own  disci'etion  in 
this  matter." 

"  Where  is  the  logic  or  discretion  of  allowing 
passengers  to  land  with  all  such  luggage  as  can 
be  carried  by  hand,   and  only  retaining   trunks 


FROM  SANTANDER    TO  MADRID.  79 

for  fumigation  1  Is  the  cholera  locked  up  in  my 
trunk  and  not  in  my  courier's  carpet-bag  1  Had 
I  known  the  marvels  of  Spanish  quarantine,  I  'd 
have  brought  my  clothes  in  a  newspaper." 

The  potentate  heeded  neither  argument  nor 
sarcasm.  He  smoked  a  cigarette,  and  seemed 
perfectly  resigned  to  my  fate.  I  wrestled  with 
the  Spanish  intellect.  I  tried  to  make  him  real- 
ize that  the  eyes  of  Europe  and  America  would 
be  everlastingly  fixed  upon  him  if  he  forced  me 
to  go  to  Madrid  with  one  gown.  At  this  final 
threat  the  potentate  relented.  "  You  cannot 
have  your  trunk,"  he  said.  "  That  would  cost 
me  my  office,  but  I  will  give  you  such  a  paper 
as  will  enable  you  to  take  out  its  entire  con- 
tents." And  the  potentate  gave  me  a  written 
order  addressed  to  the  quarantine  officers.  To 
the  last  he  did  not  seem  to  appreciate  the  ab- 
surdity of  persecuting  my  innocent  trunk. 

Thanking  the  potentate,  we  went  in  search  of 


80  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

banker  and  American  Consul,  as  it  seemed  to 
me  that  such  a  ridiculous  law  might  be  overruled 
by  powerful  influence.  The  Spanish  banker  re- 
ceived me  with  stately  dignity,  looked  at  my  let- 
ter of  credit,  heard  my  pathetic  story,  and  said 
he  could  do  nothing.  Law  was  law.  This,  from 
a  native  of  the  country  that  makes  more  laws 
and  fulfils  fewer  than  any  nation  in  the  world, 
impressed  me.  We  bade  each  other  farewell 
with  profound  bows,  and  soon  I  stood  in  the  small 
office  of  the  American  Consulate.  Of  course  the 
Consul  was  a  Spaniard  who  could  not  speak  Eng- 
lish ;  but  I  am  assured  that  he  is  efficient,  and 
that  his  assistant  understands  our  language. 
Half  a  dozen  men  were  smoking,  all  of  whom 
stopped  puffing  as  the  thrilling  tale  was  told. 
They  examined  the  order,  and  then  the  Consul 
said  :  "  Madam,  I  don't  know  how  you  have  ob- 
tained this  document,  but  you  are  given  extraor- 
dinary privileges.      No  human  being  can  obtain 


FROM  SANTANDER    TO  MADRID.  81 

more.  Take  your  clothes,  and  I  will  send  the 
trunk  back  to  Bayonne."  There  was  no  power 
behind  the  Consul.  The  telegraph-wire  to  Madrid 
was  cut,  and  I  gave  up  the  contest.  Then  I  fell 
to  questioning.  What  did  the  mercantile  com- 
munity think  of  Castelar? 

"  A  great  orator,  a  good  man,  one  who  would 
do  everything  for  Spain  if  he  could,  but  he  can- 
not.    He  lacks  executive  force.     He  is  a  dreamer, 

not  a  statesman." 
■ 
"  What  are  the  chances  of  a  republic  1 " 

"  They  are  small.  We  have  a  republic  with- 
out republicans.  We  are  opposed  to  Carlism. 
We  want  peace,  and  will  accept  whatever  gives 
it  to  us." 

With  this  confession  of  faith  ringing  in  my 
ears,  we  left  the  Consulate. 

What  next  was  to  be  done  1  To  go  in  search 
of  the  Four  Friends.  And  where  was  it1?  In 
the    neighborhood    of   quarantine  1      And    where 


82  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

was  quarantine  ?  Across  the  harbor,  five  miles 
away.  It  was  half  past  ten  o'clock,  and  the  Ma- 
drid train  started  at  two.  How  long  wonld  it 
take  to  go  and  return  1  About  two  hours,  if 
nothing  happened.  As  something  always  hap- 
pens when  one  is  in  a  hurry,  I  begged  the  Blink- 
er to  secure  the  lightest  boat  and  strongest 
rowers.  He  smiled,  went  to  the  quay,  returned, 
and  escorted  me  to  a  heavy  tub  commanded  by 
an  old  man  and  manned  by  a  small  boy.  I  said 
nothing.  Of  what  use  1  The  Blinker  would  have 
assured  me  that  the  boat  was  the  best  in  the 
harbor.  "  Now,  my  good  friends,  hurry.  I  've 
no  time  to  lose,"  I  exclaimed.  Whereupon  man 
and  boy  sat  down  to  indulge  in  a  dialogue  as  to 
whether  they  should  or  should  not  carry  a  sail. 
Deciding  affirmatively,  the  boy  went  in  search 
of  one,  and  in  the  course  of  twenty  minutes  the 
unwieldy  thing  was  in  place.  "  Now  we  are  off," 
I  thought.     No,  we  were  not.     Then  began  the 


FROM  SANTANDER    TO   MADRID.  83 

most  important  work  of  the  day,  —  making  ciga- 
rettes. The  entire  Spanish  nation  begins  and 
ends  in  smoke.  With  the  first  puff  we  were 
under  way  so  far  as  concerned  the  sailing  ;  but, 
as  the  wind  was  very  light,  I  suggested  row- 
ing. Would  the  noble,  independent  Spaniards 
row  1  No ;  they  preferred  smoking  and  conver- 
sation. Why  should  they  wear  themselves  out  1 
The  sea  glittered  like  molten  silver,  the  air  was 
soft,  the  sky  beautiful.  Why  exert  the  muscles  ] 
To  talk  about  being  in  haste  seemed  to  them  an 
evidence  of  insanity. 

As  man  and  boy  sat  puffing,  puffing,  puffing,  I 
wondered  whether  the  former  had  any  political 
opinions,  whether  the  condition  of  Spain  inter- 
ested him.  He  looked  lazy  and  ignorant  enough 
to  be  a  Carlist,  and  I  asked  him  if  he  were  so. 
For  the  first  time  a  slight  gleam  came  into  his 
eyes. 

"Carlist?     No.     If  Don  Carlos  succeeds,    the 


84  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

Inquisition  will  be  revived  within  twenty-four 
hours.  We  don't  want  the  Inquisition.  When 
the  authorities  came  to  me,  I  said  I  was  a  re- 
publican, and  I  put  my  cross  on  a  piece  of  paper 
that  they  told  me  signified  my  allegiance  to  the 
government.  I  am  a  republican  because  under 
a  republic  commerce  will  flourish  and  living 
will  be  cheaper.  I  can  wear  better  clothes  and 
have  more  of  them." 

It  was  not  the  most  enlightened  republicanism 
I  had  ever  dreamed  of,  but  it  was  so  much  bet- 
ter than  Carlism  that  I  felt  a  certain  amount 
of  sympathy  for  the  speaker,  who  gradually  be- 
came interested  in  my  fate  and  evinced  a  slight 
desire  to  get  over  the  water.  When  we  arrived 
at  quarantine  the  Four  Friends  was  spluttering 
and  shrieking,  backing  and  filling,  trying  to 
effect  a  landing.  Heeding  our  pantomime,  she 
stopped,  and  by  a  repetition  of  the  gymnastics 
practised  on  a  more  formidable  occasion,  I  went 
aboard. 


FROM  SANTANDER    TO  MADRID.  85 

The  quarantine  officer  looked  at  the  order,  said 
it  was  queer,  but  that  there  was  nothing  to  pre- 
vent my  emptying  the  trunk  inside  out.  This 
I  knew,  and  in  five  minutes  we  jumped  into  our 
boat  with  the  biggest,  absurdest-looking  bundle 
I  ever  saw  in  the  possession  of  any  one  not 
an  emigrant.  It  was  half  past  twelve  o'clock. 
Both  current  and  wind  were  against  us,  and  I 
began  to  despair.  Would  the  good  men  row  ? 
Well,  yes,  they  would.  They  did  not  want  me 
to  be  left  by  the  train.  And  they  dipped  their 
oars  into  the  water  with  something  akin  to  vigor. 
It  was  not  what  I  call  rowing,  but  I  had  begun 
to  grow  reasonable,  and  not  to  expect  Yankee 
energy  from  Spanish  lazzaroni.  Slowly  we  ap- 
proached the  town,  the  wind  helping  us  on  the 
last  tack.     What  time  was  it  when  we  landed? 

"  Eight  minutes  past  two,"  said  the  Blinker's 
watch. 

"  Ten  minutes  before  two,"  said  mine. 


86  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

The  Blinker  declared  his  time  was  precisely 
that  of  the  cathedral,  and  it  was  useless  to  think 
of  catching  the  Madrid  train.  I  said  that,  ac- 
cording to  the  church  clocks  in  the  morning,  my 
watch  was  right.  The  captain  and  crew  would 
not  commit  themselves  to  either  side,  and  I 
silenced  the  Blinker  by  telling  him  to  do  as  I 
said  and  not  say  what  I  should  do.  He  smiled, 
of  course,  and  with  a  beggar  running  in  advance, 
carrying  my  ridiculous  bundle  on  his  head,  for 
which  I  felt  an  apology  was  due  to  the  gaping 
multitude,  we  strode  into  the  hotel.  Where  was 
the  station  1  Near  by.  Where  was  a  carriage  1 
None  to  be  had.  Everybody  walked.  Should  I 
be  in  time  for  the  train  1  My  friend  the  maitre 
dlwtel  did  not  know.  I  could  but  try.  The 
Blinker  disappeared.  I  cried  aloud  for  more  beg- 
gars. They  swarmed.  To  my  room  I  rushed, 
collected  more  bundles,  consigned  them  to  my 
small  army,  paid  the  hotel  bill,  and  then  looked 


FROM  SANTANDER    TO  MADRID. 


87 


about  for  the  Blinker.  The  maitre  d  'hotel 
rushed  up  stairs  after  my  enterprising  courier. 

"Where  is  your  carpet-bag1?"  I  asked. 

"  0,  are  you  really  going  1 "  he  exclaimed,  re- 
tiring, and  returning  with  his  luggage.  "  Good 
by,"  he  said  blandly  to  the  maitre  d hotel. 
"We'll  be  back  directly." 


Beggar.        Beggar.  Beggar.  Myself.        The  Blinker. 

Was  not  this  insulting?  Was  it  not  enough 
to  make  an  American  perform  a  war-dance  1  In 
single  file    we   hurried   to   the  station.     We   did 


88  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

not  run  ;  I  found  it  impossible  to  run  in  Spain. 
And  what  o'clock  do  you  suppose  it  was  when 
we  arrived  %  Charming  diversity  of  time  !  Ten 
minutes  before  two  !  I  did  n't  make  a  speech  to 
the  Blinker.  With  a  deportment  worthy  of  the 
noble  soil  beneath  my  feet,  I  merely  pointed  to 
the  clock  and  said,  "  I  told  you  so." 

The  Blinker  smiled. 

Such  a  crowd  !  It  seemed  as  though  half  the 
world  had  assembled  on  the  platform  to  bid  an 
everlasting  farewell  to  the  other  half  huddled 
together  in  the  train.  I  felt  somewhat  like  a 
victim,  as  going  to  Madrid  was  not  the  safe  jour- 
ney it  had  been.  An  accident  had  occurred  not 
many  days  before,  the  sum  total  of  which  was 
seventeen  killed  and  several  wounded.  Some 
maintained  it  to  have  been  the  result  of  a  Carl- 
ist  conspiracy ;  others  blamed  the  road.  No- 
body knew,  and  I  trusted  to  about  all  one  can 
trust,  —  luck.      Every   place  was    occupied    but 


FROM  SANTANDER    TO  MADRID.  89 

a  coup£,  into  which  I  climbed,  —  for  that  is  what 
eutering  a  European  railway-carriage  means,  — 
the  beggars  and  the  Blinker  barricading  me  with 
bundles.  I  have  always  had  a  contempt  for 
women  who  travel  with  bundles.  Bundles  are 
but  one  remove  from  bandboxes.  And  here  was 
I  with  the  contents  of  a  trunk  in  my  arms  !  Of 
course  everybody's  eyes  were  fastened  on  that 
blue-and-white  checkered  bundle,  —  done  tap  in 
a  morning  wrapper,  —  and  of  course  I  could  not 
rise  to  explain.  I  sympathized  with  Pickwick 
and  his  sporting  friends  when  they  went  about 
all  day  with  a  dreadful  horse  which  they  could 
not  rid  themselves  of  and  were  accused  of  steal- 
ing. I  wanted  to  put  my  head  out  of  the  win- 
dow and  assure  people  I  was  not  a  receiver  of 
stolen  goods. 

We  departed  at  twenty  minutes  past  two  ! 
Hei-eafter  I  shall  never  despair  of  catching  a 
Spanish  train,  for,  although  it  may  have  started, 


90  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 


I  shall  be  sure  to  catch  up  with  it  by  walking 
over  the  track,  because  it  stands  still  much  more 
than  it  goes  ahead.  Why  trains  should  stop  at 
any  way-station  seems  curious,  nobody  appearing 
to  enter  or  leave  them.  Whenever  the  train 
for  Madrid  did  stop,  however,  I  concluded  it  was 
for  the  night.  I  believe  the  cause  of  detention 
is  due  to  tobacco,  —  heaven's  last,  best  gift  to 
man.  At  every  station  engineer,  firemen,  all, 
make  cigarettes,  and  do  not  start  until  the  last 
puff  has  been  drawn.  Time  was  made  for  slaves. 
Are  Spaniards  slaves  1  They  are  the  cause  of 
slavery  in  others. 

Converting  my  checkered  bundle  into  a  pillow, 
I  congratulated  myself  on  having  a  coupe  where- 
in to  be  moderately  comfortable.  I  had  had 
nothing  to  eat  for  two  days  except  a  few  grapes ; 
but  it  is  astonishing  how  one  can  live  without 
eating  after  becoming  accustomed  to  it.  Was  I 
allowed    to    remain    in    peace  1      Certainly   not. 


FROM  SANTANDER   TO  MADRID.  91 

While  we  were  fondly  lingering  at  a  station  not 
many  miles  from  Santander,  a  young  man  opened 
the  door  and  politely  asked  me  if  I  had  a  coupe 
ticket. 

"  No ;  I  saw  the  coupe"  empty.  No  official 
could  or  would  give  me  any  information  about 
it,  and  I  got  in." 

"There  are  others  who  wish  the  coupe." 

"  Possession  is  nine  points  of  the  law." 

"  Certainly,  madam,  but  there  are  three  gen- 
tlemen who  wish  to  occupy  the  other  seats,  and 
unless  you  take  the  compartment  they  have  a 
right  to  them." 

"  Are  they  Spaniards  1 " 

"  Yes,  madam." 

"  Do  they  smoke  1 " 

"  Certainly,  madam." 

"  It  is  impossible.  I  can't  endure  smoke  all 
night.  There  is  no  compartment  for  women.  I 
must  take  the  coupe." 


92  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

"  But,  madam,  you  will  ruin  yourself.  The 
coupe'  will  cost  you  a  great  deal  of  money." 

"How  much]" 

The  polite  young  man  sat  down  and  did  sums 
for  ten  minutes,  at  the  end  of  which  time  he 
presented  a  bill  that  staggered  my  intellect  and 
frightened  my  purse.  In  all  my  experience  I 
had  never  known  such  extortion. 

"  What  does  this  mean  1 " 

"  It  means  that  the  government  taxes  rail- 
roads to  such  a  degree  as  to  put  up  fares.  I 
thought  you  did  not  know  Spain.  It  really  will 
not  pay  you  to  take  this  coupe.  At a  car- 
riage with  compartment  for  Barnes  Seniles  will  be 
put  on,  and  then  I  advise  you  to  change.  '  Until 
then  you  can  have  the  coupe-  to  yourself." 

Such  interest  in  my  pocket  touched  me.  How 
did  that  unknown  young  man  divine  my  finan- 
cial status  ]  Why  did  he  not  take  me  for  an 
"  American  Princess  "  1     Was  it  being  without  a 


FROM  SANTANDER   TO  MADRID.  93 

trunk,  travelling  with  a  steerage  bundle,  that 
revealed  my  abject  squalor?  Yes,  a  woman  is 
known  by  her  trunks.  I  did  not  inform  my 
economical  friend  that  I  owned  a  courier.  I 
was  so  glad  to  be  rid  of  the  Bhnker  that  I  would 
not  have  called  for  his  assistance  had  my  bundle 
been  borne  off   by  brigands.     Upon  arriving  at 

,  true  to  his  word,  the   polite  young  man 

appeared  with  porters,  escorted  me  and  my  bun- 
dles to  a  woman's  compartment,  and  bade  me  a 
good  night. 

On  general  principles  I  object  to  the  compart- 
ment for  Dames  Seules  :  first,  because  Dames 
Seules  usually  carry  as  many  bundles  as  I  did 
on  this  exceptional  occasion,  and  stow  them  away 
in  the  places  where  legs  ought  to  go ;  second,  be- 
cause they  travel  with  babies  that  cry,  or  small 
children  that  eat  candy  or  cake  and  then  wipe 
their  dear,  dirty  little  fingers  on  your  new  trav- 
elling-gown ;  third,  because  they  have  as  much 


04  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 


as  they  can  do  to  take  care  of  themselves,  and 
never  volunteer  to  help  you  in  or  out  of  the  car- 
riage, or  fetch  you  a  glass  of  water,  or  say  civil 
things  to  you.  I  always  avoid  Dames  Seules,  but 
in  Spain  I  was  grateful  for  them.  On  entering,  I 
beheld  three  ladies  and  two  children.  They  were 
exceedingly  courteous,  gave  me  two  seats  and 
fastened  their  black  eyes  on  my  bundle.  To  vin- 
dicate my  right  to  respectability,  I  told  them  the 
story  of  the  quarantine.  They  listened  gravely, 
never  dreamed  of  smiling,  and  merely  remarked 
that  I  was  very  brave  to  come  to  Spain  at  such 
a  time.  "But,"  they  added,  "American  women 
are  not  like  European.  They  travel  about  like 
men.  It  must  be  very  fatiguing,  and  to  come 
to  Spain  !  After  seeing  Paris,  what  is  there  in 
Madrid,  especially  now1?" 

"  You  are  not  republicans  1 " 

"  0  no ;  nor  any  one  else,"  replied   the  most 
voluble  of  the  seiloras. 


FROM  SANTANDER    TO  MADRID.  95 

"Are  you  in  favor  of  Don  Carlos?" 

"  Not  at  all.  It  is  a  great  trial  to  be  torn 
to  pieces  by  civil  war,  but  we  are  obliged  to  en- 
dure it.  The  best  Spaniards  are  Alphonsists.  The 
Queen  we  do  not  want.  She  has  disgraced  us ; 
but  her  son  is  our  legitimate  sovereign.  Unfor- 
tunately, he  is  very  young.  We  fear  a  regency, 
and  so  accept  the  present  government." 

"  Then  you  regard  the  republic  as  a  iris-aller." 

"  Precisely." 

"What  do  you  think  of  Castelar?" 

"He  is  a  good  man  and  a  fine  orator;  but  he 
can  never  accomplish  what  he  has  undertaken. 
We  are  biding  our  time." 

Poor  Castelar  !  How  I  pitied  him  !  Atlas  bear- 
ing the  earth  on  his  shoulders  had  no  such  bur- 
den. The  farther  I  got  into  Spain,  the  far- 
ther  off  seemed  the  republic. 

"Dinner  !  dinner  !  twenty  minutes  for  din- 
ner ! "  and  off  everybody  rushed  to  the  dining- 


96  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

room  of  a  restaurant.  It  was  the  only  occasion 
on  which  I  saw  Spaniards  in  a  hurry,  although 
Gautier  declares  that  they  are  the  greatest  walk- 
ers and  most  agile  runners.  They  would  have 
done  credit  to  a  Western  steamboat,  as  described 
by  Dickens  thirty  years  ago.  I  had  succeeded 
so  well  without  eating,  that  to  dine  seemed  like 
throwing  away  money.  However,  early  prejudices 
still  clung  to  me,  and  I  sat  down  beside  a  nice- 
looking  Spanish  woman,  who  immediately  began 
to  talk  broken  English.  It  really  is  provoking 
not  to  be  able  to  pass  for  somebody  else  occa- 
sionally, but  the  Anglo-Saxon  is  so  branded  with 
national  characteristics  as  to  render  concealment 
impossible.  This  woman  ate  ;  I  could  not.  There 
came  soup  with  oil  in  it ;  then  dry  fish  with  oil 
on  it,  followed  by  pork  and  oil.  I  fell  back  on 
a  bit  of  done-to-death  beef  and  underdone  potato. 
At  least  I  made  the  effort,  but  had  no  knife. 

"  Bring  me  a  knife,"  I  said  to  a  waiter  laden 
with  dishes. 


FROM  SANTANDER    TO  MADRID.  97 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  waiter,  and  never  re- 
turned. 

"  Bring  madam  a  knife,"  said  the  Spanish  wo- 
man to  another  waiter. 

"  Certainly,"  he  replied,  and  never  returned. 

Both,  probably,  came  back  the  next  day.  The 
one  word  in  everybody's  mouth  is  manana  (to- 
morrow). It  appears  to  be  the  appropriate 
answer  to  any  question,  and  has  so  taken  pos- 
session of  the  Spanish  mind  that  I  don't  believe 
Castelar  himself  would  dare  to  do  to-day  what 
he  could  put  off  until  to-morrow.  It  was  not 
feasible  to  postpone  my  dinner,  so  I  poised  my 
beef  on  the  point  of  a  fork  and  'gnawed  it,  to 
the  amazement  of  some  old  Spaniards  opposite, 
who  picked  their  teeth  in  chorus,  and  glared. 
Said  they,  probably,  when  seated  smoking  in  a 
hermetically  sealed  compartment,  "What  queer 
people  are  the  English !  They  never  use  a  knife. 
They  stick  their  meat  on  a  fork,  and  bite  around 


98  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

it."  I  did  n't  like  gnawing,  and,  after  deferring 
to  my  stomach  by  indulging  in  several  mouth- 
fnls,  I  arose.  The  somewhat  distant  Blinker,  who 
was  seated  at  the  same  table  devouring  all  within 
his  reach,  also  rose,  smiled  upon  me,  and  signified 
in  porpoise-like  pantomime  that  he  would  pay  for 
my  dinner.  The  benevolence  and  oil  beaming  on 
that  man's  face  deserved  to  be  immortalized  by 
John  Leech.     He  was  a  leech,  but  not  John. 

It  is  a  long  night  that  has  no  morrow.  Long 
as  it  was,  the  end  came  before  I  died  for  want 
of  fresh  air.  Thinking  me  asleep,  my  neighbors 
stole  to  the  window  and  closed  it,  counted  their 
beads,  and  said  their  prayers  in  unison.  The 
sound  was  like  the  hum  of  bees.  Then  the  ladies 
removed  their  bonnets,  took  off  their  hair,  tied 
their  remains  up  in  silk  handkerchiefs,  and  I 
watched  them,  nod,  nod,  nodding,  until  daylight. 

The  view  within  did  not  excite,  nor  did  that 
without.     When  Dickens  wishes  to  describe  deso- 


FROM  SANTANDER    TO  MADRID. 


99 


lation,  he  says,  "Few  children  were  to  be  seen, 
and  no  dogs."  Had  he  visited  Spain,  he  would 
have  drawn  a  picture  of  naked,  russet  mountains, 
stretching  north  and  south,  east  and  west,  staring 
out  of  an  atmosphere  so  clear  and  thin  as  to  ren- 
der their  bleak  monotony  all  the  more  startling, 


Naked,  russet  mountains,  —  all  dead  but  the  train. 

without  cultivation,  without  habitation,  saving 
here  and  there  the  wretched  ruin  of  a  wretched 
stone  sty,  in  which  once  may  have  wallowed 
mediaeval  beggars,  giving  no  hope  for  either  time 
or  eternity.  I  became  more  and  more  oppressed 
by  the  absence   of  life.      That   a  railroad   track 


100  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN 

should  be  laid  down  in  such  a  region,  that  a 
train  should  be  slowly  climbing  an  inclined 
plane,  that  occasional  dreary  stations,  seemingly 
attached  to  no  town,  should  punctuate  our  pro- 
gress, seemed  a  ghastly  joke ;  and  when,  early  in 
the  morning,  we  passed  the  Escorial,  built  high 
in  the  air,  and  starting  out  of  the  solitude  like 
the  great  grim  parody  on  humanity  that  it  is,  I 
saw  in  its  gridiron  the  bier  of  past  and  present 
Spain.     This  is  the  country  that  once  ruled  the 

world,  the  country  to  which  America  owes  its 
discovery ! 

Is  anything  as  incredible  as  history  1 


PART    IV. 


Pabrifr. 


IV. 


(W 


First  Impressions  of  the  City.  —  A  Bull-Fight.  —  The  Sangui- 
nary Instincts  of  the  Spaniards.  —  Cock-Fighting.  —  Span- 
ish Cooking. 

ITHOUT  the  customary  warning  of  envi- 
rons, without  premonitions  of  human  ex- 
istence, I  found  myself  shot  into  the  capital  of 
Spain,  which  seems  to  have  been  dropped  into  the 
middle  of  a  plain  twenty-four  hundred  feet  above 
the  level  of  the  sea,  for  no  better  reason  than  in- 
congruity. The  eternal  fitness  of  things  did  not 
preside  over  the  founding  of  Madrid.  How  could 
it  1  Idiocy  is  the  divine  right  of  kings.  "  I  doubt," 
writes  Irving,  "  if  the  king  who  first  made  Madrid 
a  court  residence  has  yet  got  out  of  purgatory,  for 


104  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

this  monstrous  evil  inflicted  upon  the  nation  and 
its  visitors."  The  dirty  station  looked  as  though 
it  had  been  put  up  temporarily  the  night  before, 
and  did  n't  intend  to  be  of  any  more  use  than 
it  could  help.  The  day  being  a  festival,  crowds 
of  peasants  stood  about  waiting  to  go  into  the 
country,  —  going  into  the  country  meaning  vis- 
iting the  Escorial  and  ruminating  over  the  bones 
of  brutal  Philip  the  Second.  They  could  not  go 
in  search  of  trees,  because  there  are  none.  Third- 
class  passengers,  packed  like  sardines,  howled  as 
they  departed,  and  addressed  the  multitude  in 
doubtful  Castilian.  At  first  I  thought  they  were 
organizing  a  revolution,  but  I  soon  discovered 
that  they  were  merely  insulting  lookers-on. 

Hurrying  away,  we  were  driven  to  the  Hotel 
de  Paris,  in  the  Puerta  del  Sol,  a  square  which 
is  as  much  the  centre  of  Madrid  as  Madrid  is  the 
centre  of  Spain.  All  roads  lead  to  it ;  and  what 
does  not  happen   there   is  not  worth   happening 


MADRID.  105 


at  all.  Sit  in  the  cafe  under  the  Hotel  de  Paris, 
and  Spain  will  revolve  around  you,  particularly 
at  2  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Then  citizens  begin 
to  feel  the  enlivening  effects  of  countless  ciga- 
rettes and  innumerable  glasses  of  sweetened  wa- 
ter. Madrid  goes  to  bed  at  3  a.  m.,  breakfasts 
at  1  p.  m.,  takes  a  siesta  before  going  to  the  bull- 
fight at  4,  drives  afterward,  dines  at  7,  and  later 
begins  business.  There  are  those  abject  enough 
to  retire  at  night  and  rise  in  the  morning.  They 
are  shopkeepers  and  secretaries  of  legation  pos- 
sessed of  conscience.  Conscience  emulates  the 
lark.     It  rises  early. 

I  was  in  Madrid,  eating  a  real  breakfast,  thou- 
sands of  miles  from  home,  and  not  knowing  a 
soul.  What  had  I  come  for1?  To  look  Spain  in 
the  face,  and  see  Castelar.  As  I  ate  I  pondered, 
and  as  I  pondered  I  ate.  A  handsome  Italian 
garzone  stood  by,  and  we  discussed  Spain  in  la 
lingua  del  si.  The  hotel  —  the  best  in  the  coun- 
.    s  * 


106  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

try —  is  kept  by  an  Italian,  and  his  most  faith- 
ful servants  are  countrymen.  What  did  the  gar- 
zone  think  of  the  republic? 

"Ah,  Signora,  what  would  you1?  The  Span- 
iards are  ignorant  and  cruel.  They  are  not  re- 
publican. Nobody  that  I  see  wants  a  republic. 
Everybody  wants  something  else ;  but,  as  all  are 
quarrelling  among  themselves,  Senor  Castelar 
maintains  his  position.  He  is  a  good  man.  He 
writes  fine  books,  and  makes  beautiful  speeches. 
But  the  end  of  it  will  be  that  we  shall  have  a 
king.  I  am  sick  of  it  all,  and  I  'd  like  to  go 
to  America,  where  people  are  intelligent  and  the 
poor  have  a  chance  to  rise." 

This  was  at  11  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when 
I  wondered  what  should  be  done  first.  Four 
hours  later,  all  the  rough  places  were  smoothed 
out  by  kind  Americans.  To  discover  people  is 
far  more  delightful  than  to  discover  things.  If 
more  money  were  spent  on  human  and  less  on 


MADRID.  107 


geographical  explorations,  the  world  would  be  a 
deal  happier.  What  sympathy  can  you  extract 
from  the  North  Pole  or  the  sources  of  the  Nile  1 
Both  throw  cold  water  on  you.  My  discoveries 
are  entirely  confined  to  people ;  and  because  of 
such  a  discovery,  five  hours  after  breakfast  I 
was  driven  to  a  bull-fight.  I  ought  not  to  men- 
tion the  fact ;  I  ought  to  have  been  too  virtuous 
to  go.  But  as  American  clergymen  visiting  Spain 
always  attend  bull-fights,  making  the  self-sacrifice 
in  order  to  warn  their  flocks  against  them,  I  had 
no  scruples.  I  might  assert  that  I  was  actuated 
by  the  noblest  motives ;  but  I  think  my  real  rea- 
sons were  curiosity  and  a  desire  to  see  Spain  in 
her  glory.  If  her  glory  be  that  of  the  slaughter- 
house, to  the  slaughter-house  will  I  go  —  once. 

It  was  the  feast  of  Our  Lady  of  Sorrows. 
What  more  fitting  than  a  bull-fight  1  Every- 
body by  the  name  of  Dolores,  and  everybody 
by  any  other  name  less  bitter,  filled  the  sunny 


108  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

streets,  all  hastening,  as  much  as  their  nation- 
ality would  permit,  in  one  direction.  There  was 
a  startling  unanimity  of  opinion.  There  were  no 
two  ways  about  it.  If  the  Spaniards  could  only 
agree  as  cordially  about  a  government  as  they 
do  about  a  bull-fight,  the  world  would  gaze  upon 
such  a  happy  family  as  never  yet  roared  in  a 
menagerie.  Alas  !  unanimity  among  Spaniards 
means  butchery  —  either  of  horses,  bulls,  Cuban 
students,  or  Cuban  patriots.  The  taste  of  the 
Inquisition  still  remains  in  their  mouths. 

Making  our  way  through  the  human  hive 
swarming  in  the  Puerta  del  Sol,  down  the  Calle 
de  Alcala,  across  the  Prado,  deserted  even  by 
dogs,  through  the  Puerta  de  Alcala,  we  slowly 
drove,  and  stopped  at  the  Plaza  de  Toros.  We 
were  welcomed  by  a  regiment  of  beggars,  —  all 
in  their  holiday  dirt,  the  women  bearing  their 
holiday  babies,  —  ready  to  hold  the  horses,  open 
doors  that  did  not  need  to  be  opened,  show  us 


MADRID.  109 


to  our  entrance,  relieve  us  of  our  pocket-books, 
and  pray  for  our  salvation.  I  saw  more  interest- 
ing cases  for  surgical  operations  than  gladden 
professional  eyes  in  American  hospitals  from  one 
year's  end  to  another.  I  saw  more  filthy  chil- 
dren being  trained  up  in  the  way  they  should 
not  go  —  to  a  bull-fight  or  anywhere  else  — 
than  would  have  supplied  a  ragged-school. 

But  enough  of  beggars  is  as  good  as  a  feast  of 
office-seekers,  and  we  finally  succeeded  in  mount- 
ing very  rickety  stairs  and  seating  ourselves  in 
a  box  excellent  for  sight  and  sound.  We  were 
three,  —  a  Rhode-Islander,  a  New-Yorker,  and, 
it  may  be  superfluous  to  add,  myself.  I  felt 
proud  of  my  company.  They  did  credit  to  their 
country  and  their  sex.  Their  sex  was  not  mine. 
If  the  eyes  of  America  had  fallen  upon  them, 
she  might  have  exclaimed,  as  did  Cornelia  under 
similar  circumstances,  "  These  are  my  jewels." 
First,  I  saw  a  great  wooden  circus  open  to  the 


110  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

sky,  with  one  row  of  boxes  above,  an  amphi- 
theatre below,  and  an  immense  ring  separated 
from  the  amphitheatre  by  a  red  barrier  six  feet 
high,  called  las  tablas,  and  an  alley  about  five 
feet  wide.  Then  I  saw  14,000  Spaniards,  the 
men  wearing  civilized  trousers  and  chimney-pots, 
the  women  occasionally  varying  bonnets  with  man- 
tillas. There  was  no  effect  of  color,  saving  such 
as  was  produced  by  the  waving  of  cheap  and  badly 
tinted  fans  in  that  part  of  the  circle  exposed  to 
a  blazing  sun.  Everybody  appeared  excited,  and 
cries  of  "  Agua,  agua  ! "  added  to  the  pandemo- 
nium. The  Spanish  thirst  for  blood  is  diluted  in 
water,  —  a  most  unusual  European  beverage.  Per- 
haps Spaniards  steep  themselves  in  water  because 
there  is  so  little  of  it  in  the  country.  Human 
nature  is  born  perverse.  Thanks  to  that  wise 
forethought  which  has  cut  down  all  the  trees, 
and  consequently  dried  up  most  of  the  streams, 
Spain  is  as  arid  as  America  will  be,  if  the  present 


MADRID.  HI 


suicidal,  forest-destroying  policy  is  pursued  two 
or  three  centuries  longer. 

Next,  I  heard  a  wretched  band  play  wretched 
music.  Then  began  the  procession  of  the  dra- 
matis persona',,  who  marched  round  once  and 
disappeared.  The  play  consists  of  three  acts. 
In  the  first,  the  horses  are  killed  ;  in  the  sec- 
ond, the  bull  is  worried  and  wounded ;  in  the 
third,  the  bull  is  killed.  To  every  performance 
there  are  six  plays,  in  which  six  bulls  and  at  least 
twenty-four  horses  are  slaughtered.  So  you  per- 
ceive how  busy  Mr.  Bergh  would  be  if  he  lived 
in  Spain  and  there  were  a  society  for  the  pre- 
vention of  cruelty  to  animals.  But  there  is  n't, 
and  there  will  not  be  for  fifty  years.  I  remem- 
ber, once  upon  a  time,  assisting  at  an  Italian 
spectacle  wherein  Frances  Power  Cobbe  expos- 
tulated with  a  driver  for  beating  his  overworked 
horse.  He  looked  at  her  with  amazement,  and 
exclaimed,  "Ma  signora,  non  e  Cristiano!"  (But, 


112  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN 


madam,  he  is  not  a  Christian  !)  Latin  races  have 
no  more  feeling  for  animals  than  the  Inquisition 
had  for  heretics.  Beasts  are  not  Christians.  They 
have  no  souls  to  be  saved.  And  of  all  the  Latin 
races,  Spaniards  are  the  cruelest,  because,  I  sup- 
pose, they  spring  from  the  fiercest  blood  and  are 
the  most  ignorant.  Ignorance  is  the  worst  of 
enemies. 

If  the  men  were  killed  in  bull-fights,  I  should 
say  nothing  more  than  "  it  serves  them  right." 
But,  with  the  usual  amount  of  justice  meted 
out  in  this  calculating  world,  they  alone  escape. 
Barely  are  men  injured  in  the  ring.  Skill  and 
precaution  save  them  ;  unsuspecting  hacks,  blind- 
ed on  the  side  presented  to  their  powerful  oppo- 
nent, and  bulls  that  have  never  been  warned  of 
their  doom,  are  gored  aud  butchered  amid  a 
multitude  of  human  yells.  If  by  a  miracle  a 
man  loses  his  life,  his  soul  is  saved ;  for  have 
not  bull-fighters  their  private  chapel  at  the  en- 


MADRID.  113 


trance  to  the  ring,  and  is  there  not  a  priest  in 
readiness  to  absolve  them1? 

There  is  a  deal  of  fiction  about  a  bull-fight. 
The  two  alguacils  on  horseback,  who,  clothed  in 
black,  headed  the  procession,  exhibited  two  hand- 
kerchiefs apiece,  peering  from  pockets  on  their 
breasts.  Why,  no  one  remembers.  An  alguacil 
began  Act  First  by  dashing  up  to  the  box  of  the 
President,  from  whom  he  received  the  key  of  the 
gate  at  which  the  bulls  entered.  Was  the  gate 
locked  1  No.  The  alguacil  rode  back  to  the  gate, 
it  was  thrown  open,  and  out  rushed  a  brown  and 
white  bull,  wearing  the  colors  of  the  hidalgo  on 
whose  farm  he  had  been  bred.  The  bulls  for 
Our  Lady  of  Sorrows  were  raised  by  a  noble 
duke,  a  lineal  descendant  of  America's  discov- 
erer, bearing  his  honored  name,  Cristobal  Colon. 
Whether  the  human  stock  has  degenerated  in 
its  pursuits  is  a  matter  of  taste.  We  prefer 
America   to   bull-fights;    Spaniards    prefer    bull- 

H 


114  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

fights   to   America.     But    Christopher    Columbus 
raises  fine  bulls  ;  there  are  none  better. 

With  a  trumpet-blast  the  "  lord  of  lowing 
herds  "  dashed  into  the  ring.  For  two  days  he 
had  been  kept  in  the  dark  without  food.  Fancy- 
then  his  bewilderment  and  rage  when,  blinded 
by  the  sun,  and  excited  by  the  screams  of  14,000 
throats,  to  the  left  of  the  gate,  which  closed  im- 
mediately, he  saw  a  picador  dressed  in  yellow, 
wearing  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  mounted  on  a  sorry 
beast,  and  holding  in  his  right  hand  a  threaten- 
ing lance.  Could  anything  have  been  more  in- 
viting to  bullish  instinct  1  In  one  moment  the 
bull's  horns  penetrated  the  horse's  bowels,  and 
the  lance  was  plunged  into  the  bull's  back.  The 
bull  was  game  ;  he  showed  unusual  pluck,  and 
the  Spaniards  cheered.  Again  and  again  he  re- 
turned to  the  charge.  There  never  was  a  better 
bull.  He  lifted  the  helpless  horse  off  his  feet; 
he  almost  carried  him  on  his  horns;  he  no  more 


MADRID. 


115 


heeded  the  lance  than  if  it  had  been  the  prick- 
ing of  a  pin ;  he  gored  and  gored  until  the 
wretched    horse,    quivering   from    head    to   feet, 


-~--t'-'  s^*rir^j 


Rescuing  the  Picador. 


silently  fell  to  the  ground  with  the  picador  be- 
neath him.  The  man  was  in  no  danger.  The 
bull's  attention  was  quickly  distracted  by  the 
waving  of  red  banners  in  another  direction,  and 


116  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

assistants  rescued  the  picador,  whose  high  tour- 
nament saddle  prevented  him  from  being  easily 
thrown,  and  whose  legs  were  so  cased  in  iron  as 
to  render  it  impossible  for  him  to  move  until 
set  upon  his  feet.  On  the  picador's  removal  the 
teasing  ceased,  and  the  bull,  seeing  the  dead 
horse  bathed  in  his  own  blood,  charged  him 
many  times  amid  popular  bravos.  Descrying 
another  horse,  off  the  bull  dashed  with  his  hoofs 
in  the  air,  and  so  nearly  tossed  his  victim  as  to 
unhorse  the  picador,  who  clung  to  the  barrier 
until  hauled  over  it.  The  horse  galloped  rider- 
less round  the  ring  with  his  bowels  dragging 
upon  the  ground.  It  was  a  noble  sight.  Per- 
haps you  think  the  suffering  brutes  are  speedily 
put  out  of  misery.  You  are  wrong.  As  long  as 
horses  can  stand  up  and  bear  riders,  so  long  they 
do  duty.  Contemplating  from  the  middle  of  the 
ring  the  results  of  his  prowess,  the  bull  repeated 
the  pleasing  performance,  when  the  picador  again 
mounted. 


MADRID.  1 1 7 


There  are  many  variations ;  but  the  theme 
never  varies,  and,  before  the  act  closed,  six  horses 
lay  stark  and  stiff.  Spaniards  are  intensely  crit- 
ical in  the  matter  of  bull-fights.  When  they 
think  they  are  being  cheated  out  of  sport,  they 
do  not  hesitate  to  cry  for  more  horses,  and  in 
trepidation  the  managers  rush  into  the  street  to 
buy  the  first  cheap  hack  that  offers.  Twenty- 
five  dollars  apiece  is  the  price  generally  paid. 
Six  dead  horses  in  one  act  satisfy  the  most  ex- 
acting. Now  came  the  mules.  Harnessed  three 
abreast,  with  nodding  flags  and  tassels,  they 
were  driven  in  to  fast  music,  and  performed 
scavenger  duty  by  dragging  off  their  dead  rela- 
tions in  a  tempo  furioso.  The  entrails  were 
raked  up,  and  Act  Second  began. 

Showing  no  signs  of  fatigue,  Christopher  Co- 
lumbus's bull  made  work  for  the  capeadores  (the 
men  who  shake  their  cloaks  about  promiscuously), 
and   fiercely   eyed  the   banderilleros  (from   bande- 


118  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

rilla,  little  banner),  who,  in  the  gorgeous  livery 
of  Figaro,  entered  the  ring,  bearing  barbs  which 
must  be  lodged  artistically  in  the  bull's  neck. 
Now  set  in  the  contest  between  brute  instinct 
and  human  skill.  Not  to  poise  the  barbs  in  the 
right  place  is  to  excite  multitudinous  indigna- 
tion ;  therefore  the  banderillero  is  ever  on  the 
alert,  coquetting  with  the  bull  until  the  moment 
for  throwing  arrives.  If  the  barbs  are  aimed 
finely,  and  go  in  straight,  the  banderillero  be- 
comes a  hero.  He  bows,  he  receives  a  shower 
of  cigars,  men  throw  him  their  hats,  which  he 
returns  with  masterly  flings,  and  the  owners 
are  made  happy.  Picture,  if  you  can,  the  inex- 
pressible joy  of  seeing  six  of  these  murderous 
barbs  —  six  or  eight  being  the  number  allowed 
—  standing  erect  in  the  bull's  neck.  Tortured, 
frenzied,  the  poor  beast  still  showed  pluck.  Had 
he  not,  there  would  have  been  loud  cries  of 
"Fuego,  fuego,"  and  barbs  with  fireworks  would 


MADRID.  119 


have  been  fastened  upon  his  back  to  give  him 
additional  vivacity.  With  the  throwing  of  the 
third  pair  of  barbs  Act  Second  ended. 

Act  Third  disclosed  the  espada  (swordsman), 
vulgarly  called  matador  (slayer),  humoring,  coax- 
ing, teasing  the  bull  by  dexterously  handling  the 
cloak,  under  which  was  the  weapon  destined  to 
do  the  final  butchering.  The  espada,  Lagartijo 
(Little  Lizard),  was  received  with  great  favor, 
and  certainly  he  knew  every  trick  of  his  noble 
trade.  That  bull  would  not  give  up,  but  La- 
gartijo proved  equal  to  the  occasion.  He  mag- 
netized the  bull,  which  for  a  second  was  thrown 
off  his  guard.  In  that  second,  Lagartijo  planted 
the  sword  between  the  bull's  horns  and  the 
splendid  animal  dropped  dead.  Great  was  the 
cheering,  many  were  the  hats  thrown,  more 
wrere  the  cigars.  An  attendant  picked  them 
up,  and  Lagartijo,  with  his  blue  velvet  costume 
embroidered  in  silver,  with  his  white  silk  stock- 


120 


TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 


ings,  and  with  his  black  hair  done  up  in  a  pig- 
tail, felt  that  his  supreme  ambition  had  been 
realized. 


The  Espada's  last  Thrust. 

Living  mules  bore  off  the  dead  bull,  and  there 
followed  an  intermission  for  discussion,  cigarettes, 
and  water.  Two  men  below  me  went  into  a 
bull-like  passion  over  the  recent  sport.  They 
howled,  screamed,  shook  their  fists ;  one  gave 
the  other  the  lie  direct ;  the  other  seized  his 
opponent   by  the    throat,  and    put    the    wretch's 


MADRID.  121 


head  between  his  kuees.  In  a  minute  more 
there  would  have  been  a  dead  brute  of  another 
species,  had  not  a  woman  interposed.  Fourteen 
thousand  people  talked  at  once.  The  police  in- 
terfered ;  the  combatants  were  marched  off,  glar- 
ing fiendishly  at  each  other  ;  the  woman  fol- 
lowed, and  the  excitement  subsided.  Such  are 
the  soothing  effects  of  bull-fights. 

A  flourish  of  abominable  music,  and  Bull  No. 
2  rushed  into  the  ring.  He  was  young  and 
black,  totally  unlike  his  brother.  It  is  compara- 
tively easy  to  judge  of  bulls  on  inspection ;  but 
to  be  au  fait  in  bull-fighters  demands  far  more 
experience.  Every  bull-fight  requires  different 
tactics,  and  I  understand  a  certain  amount  of 
interest  being  excited  in  humane  minds  unaccus- 
tomed to  the  sport,  after  the  slaughtering  of  the 
horses  has  been  gone  through.  Mexico,  more 
merciful  than  Spain,  does  away  with  horses  alto- 
gether. With  the  establishment  of  a  real  repub- 
6 


122  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

lie  the  old    country  may  adopt    the   reforms  of 
the  new. 

This  young  bull  did  not  know  what  to  make 
of  the  scene.  He  had  no  disposition  to  hurt 
anybody,  consequently  his  audience  informed  him 
that  he  disgraced  Christopher  Columbus,  that  he 
was  no  better  than  he  should  be,  that  he  was  a 
beast.  Spurred  on  by  these  taunts,  he  proceeded 
to  gore  the  nearest  horse  and  unseat  his  rider, 
who,  not  showing  a  disposition  to  mount  again, 
listened  to  the  gratifying  chorus  of  "  Coward ! " 
It  is  excessively  brave  for  men  secure  from  dan- 
ger to  bully  those  who  run  a  certain  amount  of 
risk.  The  picador  grew  very  red  in  the  face, 
gesticulated  profusely,  and  finally  remounted  the 
ripped-up  horse.  Bull  No.  2,  however,  seemed 
unwilling  to  fight.  He  tossed  his  head  and 
pawed  the  ground.  He  believed  in  peace.  He 
refused  to  shed  the  blood  for  which  thousands 
thirsted,  and  when  the  first  banderillero  launched 


MADRID.  123 


his  barbs  his  bullship  jumped  over  the  barrier, 
much  to  the  scattering  of  venturesome  specta- 
tors. There  was  no  escape,  and  back  he  went  to 
be  butchered.  Butchered  he  was,  for  the  espada 
ran  the  sword  in  bunglingly,  the  bull  shook  it 
out,  and  the  work  had  to  be  done  over  again.  I 
was  spared  the  extra  barbarity  of  the  media  luna, 
which  consists  in  cutting  the  tendons  of  the 
bull's  hind  legs  with  a  long-handled  instrument 
shaped  like  a  half-moon,  so  that  the  poor  creature 
may  fall  and  be  despatched  with  a  knife.  This 
is  resorted  to  when  the  espada  utterly  fails. 

Thus  ended  the  second  bull.  The  third  was 
as  game  as  the  first,  the  fourth  as  young  and 
naive  as  the  second,  the  fifth  not  unlike  the  first 
and  third.  By  this  time  the  spectacle  grew  in- 
tolerable. To  see  fair  young  women,  boys,  girls, 
white-headed  men  enthusiastic  over  a  one-sided 
sport,  in  which  all  the  animals  but  man  are  sure 
of  death,  excites  a  mingled  feeling  of  indignation 


124  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

and  disgust.  The  Rhode-Islander  stood  with  his 
face  to  the  wall.  He  kicked  the  back  of  the  box, 
I  rapped  the  front.  This  was  our  only  outlet  for 
pent-up  feelings.  "  The  Spaniards  are  brutes,'' 
exclaimed  the  Rhode-Islander.  "  They  are  not 
fit  for  a  republic,"  said  I.  Then  I  bethought  me 
that  this  was  hardly  just.  It  is  possible  to  be 
kind-hearted  and  yet  enjoy  a  bull-fight.  The- 
ophile  Gautier  —  Heaven  rest  his  brilliant  soul ! 
—  once  declared  that  a  bull-fight  was  one  of 
the  finest  spectacles  imaginable  to  man,  and  that 
when  civilization  destroyed  bull-fights,  it  would 
be  so  much  the  worse  for  civilization.  And  Gau- 
tier was  an  artist.  The  New-Yorker  who  sat 
beside  me  had  the  tenderest  of  hearts,  but,  from 
much  experience,  took  an  interest  in  the  duel 
between  man  and  bull.  What  we  drink  in  with 
mother's  milk  we  accept  without  criticism.  Chil- 
dren that  play  Toro  with  a  basket  bull  are  likely 
to  view  the  real  game  unmoved  by  pity.     Hor- 


MADRID.  125 


rible  as  the  sport  may  be,  it  is  not  the  ghastly 
thing  in  which  Rome  once  took  pleasure.  What 
Italian  would  relish  a  bull-fight1?  As  Rome  has 
grown  out  of  brutality,  so  may  Spain.  The  re- 
publican leaders  dislike  bull-fights,  but  it  would 
cost  them  their  heads  to  suggest  abolition. 
Sooner  will  Spain  voluntarily  free  her  slaves,  and 
grant  Cuban  independence,  than  connive  at  the 
suppression  of  her  "peculiar  institution."  She 
will  not  forswear  it  until  she  has  learned  to 
prize  fair  play  beyond  fair  words. 

Leaving  the  sickening  scene,  we  dro.ve  in  the 
miniature  Hyde  Park,  and  saw  as  much  of  fashion 
as  had  returned  to  town.  It  was  Paris  over 
again.  The  women  wore  French  clothes,  and  the 
men  were  the  same  pale,  blase  creatures  I  had 
left  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  Society  that  goes 
about  on  wheels  is  identical  all  the  world  over. 
I  beheld  neither  the  typical  Spanish  man  nor 
woman.     Never  have  I  seen  any  traditional  type 


126  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

of  nationality  as  strongly  marked  on  its  own  soil 
as  it  is  found  in  America.  There  are  more  Greek 
heads  in  the  United  States  than  in  Greece.  The 
purest  classical  profile  known  to  me  is  that  of  a 
New  England  woman.  Mixture  of  races  seems 
to  produce  the  characteristic  beauties  of  all. 

Near  the  Plaza  de  Toros  is  the  Cock-Pit.  Per- 
formances at  the  latter  place  begin  at  noon,  so 
that  Madrid  can  take  its  cock-fighting  en  route 
to  its  bulls.  What  economy  in  high-bred  pleas- 
ure !  And  why  should  it  be  fashionable  for  wo- 
men to  witness  the  disembowelling  of  blinded 
horses  and  not  the  fury  of  equally  matched 
cocks  1  There  is  so  much  more  manliness  in  the 
latter  as  to  render  it  eminently  respectable  when 
compai'ed  with  the  former.  Half-way  between 
cocks  and  bulls  is  the  palace  of  Marshal  Ser- 
rano, who  appears  to  occupy  a  similar  position 
between  Republicanism  and  Carlism.  He  is  a 
shrewd    man.      Does    this   signify    that   half-way 


MADRID.  127 


between  Castelar  and  Don  Carlos  lie  the  proba- 
bilities of  Spanish  government  1 

On  returning  from  the  drive  I  received  an  in- 
vitation to  dine.  What  a  comfortable  sensation 
it  was  to  sit  down  before  a  real  table  at  the 
Cafe  Forno  —  Madrid's  Delmonico's  —  and  eat  a 
tolerable  French  dinner  !  I  had  breakfasted  at 
the  hotel,  but  delusively.  The  steak  had  tender- 
ness without  taste ;  the  puree  of  potatoes  might 
as  well  have  been  paper  in  a  pulpy  state  of  mash. 
Owing  to  the  worn-out  condition  of  the  soil,  nei- 
ther Spanish  meats  nor  vegetables  possess  any 
flavor ;  among  fruits,  watermelons  and  grapes 
alone  are  grateful  to  the  taste.  Flavor  is  con- 
fined to  butter  and  onions.  Of  the  latter,  a  very 
little  goes  a  great  way  ;  of  the  former,  the  very 
least  goes  no  way  at  all  with  one  not  to  the  but- 
ter born.  It  is  simply  impossible,  and  well  de- 
serves the  name  of  "  hog's  lard  "  !  I  do  not  refer 
to  olives,  because  they  are   exceptionally  fine  and 


128  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

prove  the  rule.  There  is  no  country  in  Europe 
with  so  horrible  a  cuisine  as  Spain.  This  is  the 
dominant  reason  why  self-respecting  travellers 
carefully  avoid  it.  Not  all  the  traditional  beau- 
ties of  Andalusia  can  compensate  for  prolonged 
insult  to  a  liberally  educated  stomach.  Do  not 
languishing  black  eyes  pale  in  the  presence  of 
pork   and  garlic  1 

After  dinner  came  the  ballet,  and  did  I  not 
see  Emerson's  Brahma,  "  the  Doubter  and  the 
doubt,"  burnt  alive  in  the  arms  of  a  young  lady 
in  short  skirts  with  whom  he  was  enamored  1 
There  is  nothing  like  a  ballet  for  unmitigated 
historical  veracity.  After  the  ballet  was  there 
not  the  going  home,  catching  glimpses  of  cafes 
saturated  with  black  coats,  cigarettes,  and  eau 
sucre  ?  I  retired  to  the  soothing  accompaniment 
of  cafe  buzzing,  feeling  satisfied  that  my  first 
day  in  Madrid  could  not  have  been  fuller  had 
it  been  packed  as  piles  are  driven. 


PART   V 


(Bmiliu    CasUIar. 


6* 


V. 


The  Gallery  of  Paintings  at  Madrid.  — A  Visit  to  Emilio  Castelar. 
—  Talks  with  Bourgeois,  Office-Holders,  and  the  Blinker,  on 
the  Prospects  of  Republicanism. 

ADRID  is  most  satisfactory  to  travellers 
in  a  hurry  who  are  morbid  on  the  sub- 
ject of  embracing  opportunities.  There  are  no 
opportunities  to  embrace.  It  is  an  inexpressible 
comfort  to  know  that  you  cannot  improve  your 
mind.  Churches  do  not  lie  in  wait  for  you,  nor 
do  ruins  upbraid  you  for  not  sketching  them  on 
the  spot.  After  visiting  the  fine  armory,  behold- 
ing the  Cid's  sword  and  the  armor  worn  by 
Charles  V.  and  by  Christopher  Columbus,  — 
both   men   of  medium   size,  —  there   is   nothing 


132  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

to  see  but  the  picture-gallery ;  and  the  gallery, 
as  the  world  knows,  is  everything  to  see.  It  is 
a  wilderness  of  genius,  thrown  together  with 
Spanish  contempt  for  order  and  chronology,  ab- 
solutely stupefying  in  its  first  effect,  gradually 
fascinating,  until  appreciative  souls  stand  spell- 
bound before  its  masterpieces.  Far  better,  how- 
ever, is  the  arrangement  of  the  gallery  than  in 
1828,  when  David  Wilkie,  the  Scotch  painter, 
was  obliged  to  appeal  to  his  own  government 
before  being  able  to  gain  access  to  the  Flemish 
paintings  that  had  lured  him  to  Spain. 

Nothing  is  easier  than  fine  writing  about  paint- 
ing and  sculpture.  I  '11  none  of  it.  Critics,  not 
litterateurs,  are  needed  for  this  work.  When 
Hawthorne,  in  "  The  Marble  Faun,"  undertook  to 
play  the  connoisseur,  and  praise  his  artist  friends, 
he  displayed  ignorance  and  amiable  weakness 
unworthy  of  his  literary  genius.  Fancy  makes 
fiction  and  mars  criticism.     But  it  is  no  fiction 


EMILIO   GASTELAR.  133 

to  express  enthusiasm  for  the  portraiture  of  Ve- 
lasquez. Painting  more  honest,  more  manly,  can- 
not be  conceived.  I  'd  rather  have  one  Velasquez 
than  a  dozen  Murillos,  for  there  is  a  virility,  a 
scorn  for  nonsense  and  sentimentality,  a  respect 
for  reality,  however  unlovely,  that  brace  the  soul 
to  renew  its  fight  for  truth.  Were  history  writ- 
ten as  Velasquez  painted  it,  we  should  have  facts, 
not  prejudice.  He  has  insured  immortality  to 
his  royal  patrons.  Their  worst  deeds  will  be 
forgotten  before  their  faces.  Nevertheless,  while 
reverencing  Valasquez,  I  pity  him.  The  Spanish 
Court  condemned  him  for  life  to  the  painting 
of  ugly  men  and  women.  There  is  not  a  sym- 
pathetic face  among  all  the  Bourbons.  What 
this  artist,  with  his  love  for  beauty,  must  have 
endured,  no  one  but  himself  can  tell,  and  I 
fancy  that  he  painted  his  wonderful  portrait  of 
Bohemian  ^Esop  as  a  protest  against  royal  ruff's 
and  imbecility. 


134  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

Cold  chills  ran  down  my  back  at  sight  of  nar- 
row-headed boys  and  sleek  young  women  copying 
Murillos,  intended,  probably,  for  American  draw- 
ing-rooms. Why  men  and  women  possessed  of 
ordinary  sense  pay  gold  for  painted  blasphemies 
of  old  masters,  when  for  very  little  money  they 
can  purchase  excellent  photographs,  defies  com- 
prehension. 

On  returning  to  the  hotel  after  my  first  visit 
to  the  gallery,  I  met  the  kindest  of  men  with 
the  most  amiable  of  letters.  The  man  was  our 
Secretary  of  Legation,  a  cultivated  American,  who 
is  manna  in  the  wilderness  to  travellers  hunger- 
ing for  companionship  tempered  with  valuable 
information.  He  is  a  gentleman  and  a  guide- 
book complete  in  one  person,  and  an  honor  to 
our  diplomatic  service.  Would  there  were  more 
like  him  !  From  whom  came  the  letter  he  held 
up  for  me  to  read1?  The  superscription  was  ad- 
dressed to  "  Senor  Adee,  Secretario  de  la  Legacion 


EMILIO    CASTELAR.  135 

de  los  Estados  Unidos,"  and  at  the  foot  of  the 
envelope  I  beheld  "  Emilio  Castelar,"  distinct  and 
upright,  with  a  slight  flourish  beneath.  The 
President  of  the  Spanish  Republic  is  a  boon  to 
autograph-maniacs.  He  signs  in  full  both  envelope 
and  letter.  Peeping  inside,  I  saw  a  plain  violet 
monogram  of  E.  C.  in  the  left-hand  corner,  and 
read  how,  on  the  following  day  at  noon,  the 
President  would  be  disengaged;  how  he  would 
be  happy  to  receive  his  dear  friend  the  Secre- 
tary's compatriot  in  her  house,  and  how,  had  he 
known  her  residence,  he  would  have  called.  Here 
at  least  was  a  man  who,  having  power  thrust 
upon  him,  assumed  no  official  dignity,  content  to 
stand  or  fall  by  personal  worth.  Details  denote 
character.     So  far  I  liked  Emilio  Castelar. 

Precisely  at  noon  on  the  following  day  a  cab 
left  me  before  the  President's  door.  There  was 
a  shop  on  the  ground-floor,  and  one  soldier  only, 
in  fatigue  dress,  defended  the  general  entrance. 


136  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 


I  mounted  three  nights  of  stairs  before  arriving 
at  Castelar's  apartment.  He  is  a  bachelor,  living 
with  a  sister  older  than  himself;  a  sister  who 
tells  wonderful  stories  of  her  brother's  memory,  — 
how,  as  a  boy,  he  could  repeat  verbatim  the  con- 
tents of  a  newspaper  after  one  perusal,  and  how 
he  never  forgets  anything  he  reads.  Castelar 
must  be  particular  in  his  choice  of  books,  for 
what  a  terrible  trial  it  would  be  to  most  of  us 
to  remember  all  we  read  !  On  ringing  the  bell, 
a  man  without  livery  appeared.  Sefior  Castelar 
would  be  disengaged  shortly.  Nothing  could  be 
plainer  than  the  two  small  rooms  into  which  I 
was  ushered.  Engravings  of  the  Spanish  masters 
hung  upon  the  walls.  Besides  these,  a  bronze 
statuette  of  Don  Quixote,  another  of  Mirabeau, 
a  few  books,  and  an  enormous  bouquet,  as  un- 
couth as  Europe  could  make  it  (and  Europe  excels 
in  hideous  floral  arrangements),  were  the  sole  or- 
naments.    Had  I  not  known  of  Castelar's  sister, 


EMILIO    CASTELAR.  137 

I  should  have  said  the  rooms  lacked  the  touch 
of  a  woman's  hand;  but  few  Continental  apart- 
ments look  like  homes.  Cosiness  is  an  Anglo- 
Saxon  specialty.  Latin  drawing-rooms  resemble 
our  hotel  parlors  in  small,  and  as  Spanish  fam- 
ilies move  whenever  there  is  a  death  among 
them,  they  exist  without  roots.  Though  Ameri- 
cans move  oftener  than  the  English,  our  homes 
are  the  prettiest,  most  comfortable  and  conven- 
ient in  the  world.  We  have  no  palaces,  no 
state  apartments ;  but  who  that  has  breathed 
the  cold  atmosphere  of  colossal  grandeur  wishes 
to  live  in  it? 

All  this  I  thought  while  waiting  for  Castelar, 
becoming  more  and  more  nervous  about  seeing 
him ;  for  what  right  had  I  to  take  up  his  valua- 
ble time,  —  I  who  had  come  to  Spain  solely  to 
look  at  him,  hear  him  talk  if  he  would,  and  draw 
my  own  conclusions  for  my  own  satisfaction'? 
I   had    not   been  sent    on  a  mission    by   a  great 


138  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 


moral  organ;  I  was  not  clothed  in  the  garb  of 
an  interviewer.  Impulse  alone  had  impelled  me, 
and  how  could  I  draw  Castelar  out  in  half  an 
hour  1  Though  I  might  long  to  put  leading  ques- 
tions and  jump  into  the  middle  of  things,  I  could 
not.  Noblesse  oblige.  I  had  begun  to  snub  im- 
pulse, and  wish  myself  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Pyrenees,  when  Castelar  entered,  shaking  hands 
so  cordially  as  to  render  my  role  less  difficult 
than  I  had  feared.  He  was  a  man  of  thirty-six, 
about  five  feet  six  inches  tall,  inclined  to  corpu- 
lency, squarely  built  aud  short-necked.  He  had 
an  olive  complexion,  great,  black,  sympathetic 
eyes,  denoting  a  near-sightedness  that  the  glasses 
hanging  from  his  neck  proved;  a  round  face, 
shorn  of  all  but  a  heavy  black  mustache,  conceal- 
ing the  mouth  too  much  to  please  a  physiogno- 
mist ;  a  round,  good-natured  chin ;  a  noble,  dome- 
shaped  bead,  somewhat  suggestive  of  Shakespeare's, 
benevolent  to  others,  yet  ungenerous  to  itself  in 


EMILIO   CASTELAR. 


139 


the  matter  of  hair.  This  was  Emilio  Castelar; 
he  too  introverted  to  remark  the  ink-stain  upon 
his  shirt  or  the  general  carelessness  of  his  dress. 
Enemies  make  capital  out  of  this  personal  neg- 
ligence.    It   shows  how  clean   Castelar   must   be 


Emilio  Castelar. 

inside  when  opponents  are  obliged  to  attack  his 
clothes.  A  clever  Spaniard,  immaculate  in  attire, 
once  devoted  a  whole  hour  to  the  task  of  demon- 
strating Castelar's  unfitness  to  govern  because  of 
his  slovenliness.  I  admired  the  handsome  Span- 
iard, but  failed  to  be  convinced.     Cleanliness  is 


140  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

next  to  godliness ;  but  if,  in  revolutionary  times, 
we  cannot  have  both,  let  us  take  godliness  and 
be  grateful. 

What  first  rises  to  the  surface  in  Castelar  is 
exceeding  amiability.  Thoroughly  unassuming, 
not  anxious  to  speak  of  himself,  he  turned  the 
conversation  upon  America,  expressing  great  in- 
terest in  our  government,  wanting  to  know  about 
the  condition  of  the  South,  and  regretting  that 
he  did  not  speak  English.  He  could  read  it, 
and  was  very  fond  of  Emerson,  but  to  talk  it 
was  beyond  his  power.  Castelar  speaks  French, 
but  not  purely.  The  Cortes  had  closed  its  doors 
three  days  before,  so  I  could  not  hear  him  at 
his  best.  Americans  have  assured  me  that  Cas- 
telar excited  them  to  the  highest  pitch,  although 
speaking  a  language  unknown  to  them.  His 
pantomime  and  fervor  inspired  an  enthusiasm 
for  they  could  not  tell  what !  This  is  indeed 
oratory. 


EMILIO   CAST  EL  AR.  \i\ 

"  Ah,  I  love  the  tribune,  —  I  love  speaking  !  " 
exclaimed  Castelar,  in  the  tone  of  one  not  quite 
at  home  in  his  new  position. 

"  Then  you  are  thrust  into  power !  You  ac- 
cept the  Presidency  because  there  is  no  one 
else?" 

"  Precisely." 

It  seemed  to  me  Castelar  uttered  the  absolute 
truth.  It  seemed  to  me  he  realized  what  Na- 
ture had  intended  him  for,  —  authorship  and 
oratory.  It  seemed  to  me  his  highest  ambition 
was  to  help  establish  republicanism  in  his  own 
country.  Rather  than  have  the  experiment  fail, 
he  had  taken  command.  I  recognized  the  lov- 
able man,  the  author  and  orator,  but  I  could 
not  see  the  born  statesman.  His  jaw  lacked 
such  force  as  a  physiognomist  would  declare 
necessary  to  drag  Spain  out  of  mire  and  bank- 
ruptcy. I  am  sure  his  spinal  column  is  short. 
Long  spines  denote  executive  ability.     A  leader 


142  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

should  have  profound  knowledge  of  men.  I 
could  not  feel  Castelar  to  be  in  any  sense  a 
man  of  the  world.  "  I  am  always  inclined  to 
believe  more  good  than  evil  of  human  nature," 
he  writes  in  "  Old  Rome  and  New  Italy,"  and  I 
thought  that  too  much  faith  in  the  promises  of 
others,  an  impossibility  to  conceive  treachery, 
would  sooner  or  later  cause  his  downfall.  Un- 
like his  people,  he  impressed  me  not  only  as 
above  suspicion,  but  so  constituted  as  to  be 
incapable  of  it.  Seeing  everything  couleur  de 
rose  is  charming  in  society,  but  not  safe  in  gov- 
erning, where  the  worst  should  be  anticipated. 
All  the  while  I  thought,  "  What  a  good  fellow 
you  are,  and  what  a  lamb  you  will  be  among 
those  Spanish  foxes  quietly  plotting  against  you  ! 
May  Providence  interpose  and  save  you  from 
your  own  unsuspecting  self  !  " 

Much    that    Castelar     said     was     confidential. 
What    I   repeat,    therefore,    is   of    comparatively 


EMILIO   CASTELAR.       %  143 

little  interest.  At  the  time  (September  23)  the 
Spanish  army  of  the  North  did  not  equal  the 
Carlists  in  numbers.  On  the  following  week 
there  would  be  reinforcements.  Then  Castelar 
hoped  for  favorable  results.  Months  have  since 
gone  by,  and  Don  Carlos  still  holds  his  own.  The 
Intransigente  were  almost  crushed  out.  They 
are  not  dead  yet.  With  three  wars  going  on 
at  once,  —  Cuban,  Carlist,  and  Intransigente,  — 
I  might  judge  whether  he,  Castelar,  had  not 
enough  to  do.  Mark  you,  Castelar  acknowl- 
edged there  was  a  war  in  Cuba,  although  the 
Spanish  government  does  not.  He  worked  from 
eight  in  the  morning  until  midnight,  taking  very 
little  exercise.  This  is  bad  policy  for  a  bilious 
temperament  subject  to  fearful  headaches.  Men 
with  self-asserting  livers  are  not  the  best  to 
handle  intricate  reins.  Vertigo  may  come  at 
any  moment,  and  then  where  are  the  passen- 
gers %  For  the  sake  of  the  republic  Castelar 
is  impairing  his  health. 


144  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 


i 


"When  would  slavery  be  abolished?" 

"  Soon." 

"  And  what  means  soon  1 " 

"When  the  Cortes  meets." 

The  Cortes  has  met,  and  deposed  not  slavery, 
but  Castelar.  Consistency  is  not  a  jewel  to  be 
found  in  Spain. 

"  But  how  is  it,  Senor  Castelar,"  I  asked, 
"that  you,  who  throughout  your  public  career 
have  asserted  the  right  to  self-government,  shoidd 
persist  in  holding  Cuba,  in  spite  of  having  buried 
80,000  soldiers  and  a  vast  amount  of  treasure1?" 

"  Ah,  I  see  that  you  do  not  sympathize  with 
Spain  in  this  matter." 

"  Most  decidedly  not.  I  believe  in  Cuba 
Libre." 

Castelar  looked  at  me.  He  would  not  argue 
because  he  could  not.  No  man  cares  to  eat 
his  own  words.     No  diet  is  more  indigestible. 

"  My  two   great  ideas,  whose,  worship   I   shall 


EMILIO   CAST  EL  AR.  145 

never  renounce,  are  liberty  and  country,"  wrote 
Castelar  in  "  Old  Rome  and  New  Italy."  Said 
he  to  me,  quietly  :  "  I  am  first  a  Spaniard,  and 
then  a  Republican."  In  days  of  power  country 
comes  first  ;  liberty  must  look  out  for  itself. 
Very  differently  did  Castelar  talk  to  Charles 
Bradlau'gh  ;  but  times  had  changed.  In  the 
spring  Castelar  was  out  of  office  ;  in  the  autumn 
he  was  dictator.  I  know  in  what  a  difficult  posi- 
tion he  was  placed ;  I  know  that  justice  to 
Cuba  meant  signing  his  own  political  death-war- 
rant ;  but  for  all  that  Castelar  stultified  him- 
self. I  saw  that  he  would  sacrifice  one  republic 
to  found  another ;  that  he  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  resorting  to  Jesuitical  dogma,  — 
the  end  justified  the  means.  And  I  saw  that 
Cuba  had  no  more  to  gain  from  Spain,  so-called 
republican,  than  from  Spain  monarchical. 

You  may  paint,  you  may  flatter,  "  free"  Spain  as  you  will, 
But  the  scent  of  the  bloodhound  will  hang  round  it  still. 

7  j 


146  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

-    ■    —  ^ 

In  betraying  the  dream  of  his  youth,  Castelar 
made  a  fearful  mistake,  which  he  may  rue  in 
exile.  The  Spanish  republic  is  not  worth  found- 
ing if  it  can  only  exist  at  the  expense  of  colonial 
despotism.  Spain  cannot  be  a  republic  as  long 
as  she  clutches  Cuba  by  the  throat,  nor  will  she 
be  a  republic  in  name  any  longer  than  suits  the 
convenience  of  monarchical  factions.  Better  far 
for  Castelar's  fame  had  his  watchword  been  that 
of  the  past,  —  "  Liberty  and  Country."  True 
to  it,  he  would  be  loved  by  all  republicans. 
Now  he  is  doubted  by  many,  and  hated  by  Cuba. 
Is  anything  in  the  world  worth  the  renunciation 
of  sworn  principles] 

Had  Sehor  Castelar  faith  in  the  perma- 
nency of  the  republic  1  Yes.  Spain  was  repub- 
lican ;  much  more  so  than  France.  The  bour- 
geoisie and  people  were  republican,  and  with 
the  reorganization  of  the  army,  there  would  be 
changes  for  the  better. 


EMILIO   CASTELAR.  147 

I  had  remained  longer  than  ceremony  per- 
mitted. It  behooved  me  to  go,  and  I  rose  to 
say  farewell,  when  Castelar  changed  it  to  au 
revoir,  adding  that  he  would  call  upon  me.  He 
named  the  hour  and  day,  and  I  took  my  leave, 
feeling  that  I  had  known  Castelar  almost  as  long 
as  I  had  liked  him.  But  —  I  felt  more  uncer- 
tain about  the  republic  than  before  making  a 
delightful  acquaintance. 

On  leaving  the  house  I  was  importuned  by 
beggars.  I  asked  them  what  their  politics  were. 
They  replied  with  a  grin  that  they  had  none. 
What  they  wanted  was  enough  to  eat  and  drink. 
Why  should  they  care  for  anything  else  ?  "  St. 
Christopher  take  everybody  that  keeps  strangers 
away  and  makes  money  scarce  ! "  Paying  the 
beggars  for  their  valuable  remarks,  I  sauntered 
into  a  shop  for  the  purpose  of  chatting  with  one 
of  the  bourgeoisie.  There  were  photographs  for 
sale,  and  the  young  man  behind  the  counter  ad- 


148  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

dressed  me  in  English,  saying  that,  although  he 
had  lived  in  Spain  all  his  life,  his  mother  was 
Scotch  and  his  father  French.  The  civil  war 
had  made  foreigners  so  rare  that  the  clerk 
seemed  to  look  upon  me  as  a  blessing  in  dis- 
guise, and  we  immediately  launched  into  con- 
versation. There  is  nothing  like  photography 
to  let  loose  the  flow  of  talk.  What  were  the 
specialties  of  Madrid]  Why,  there  were  photo- 
graphs of  the  Spanish  masters,  but  those  might 
be  bought  in  Paris.  What  thrived  only  on 
home  soil  were  bull-fights  and  bull-fighters.  Out 
came  numerous  bull-fighters  in  every  possible 
attitude,  all  of  whom  I  bought  and  studied. 
They  are  not  a  bad-looking  lot.  Their  figures 
are  lithe,  their  heads  are  not  brutally  built, 
there  is  nothing  of  the  prize-fighter  about  their 
necks.  Mouths  alone  tell  the  story  of  their 
lives.  Without  exception  they  are  sensual  in 
the  worst  acceptation,  hard,  and  often  cruel.     I 


EMILIO   CASTELAR.  H9 

thought  of  the  fine  duchesses,  who,  on  several 
occasions,  had  invited  noted  espadas  to  dinner, 
—  duchesses  who  could  not  have  been  induced 
to  extend  similar  courtesies  to  distinguished 
lyric  or  dramatic  artists ;  and  I  realized  how 
much  American  society  has  to  learn  from  its 
mother.  We  never  give  dinner-parties  to  heroes 
of  the  ring  who  make  jelly  of  one  another  in 
far  more  manly  style  than  the  Spanish  heroes 
draw  blood.  We  are  still  young ;  we  may  come 
to  it. 

There  were  photographs  of  the  bulls  killed 
at  the  previous  fight.  Fine  creatures,  were  they 
not  1  I  bought  them  as  a  tender  souvenir. 
Would  I  look  at  the  fans  illustrating  the  na- 
tional sport  %  Of  course.  I  bought  one.  Would 
I  purchase  the  book  of  coloi'ed  prints  giving  a 
most  accurate  idea  of  a  bull-fight  from  begin- 
ning to  end  1  Certainly.  No  lady's  library 
could  be  complete  without  it.     There  were  pica- 


150  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

dors  sticking  lances  into  bulls,  bulls  tossing  dogs, 
and  horses  galloping  about  in  a  state  of  hari- 
kari.  What  more  entertaining  to  an  educated 
mind] 

"  Now,"  said  I,  having  had  enough  of  blood 
and  bulls,  "  I  want  photographs  of  your  public 
men." 

That  irreverent  clerk  began  to  laugh.  "Mad- 
am," he  exclaimed,  "  which  1  If  you  buy  them 
all,  you  will  purchase  the  greater  part  of  our 
stock.  We  've  a  lot  of  public  men  in  Spain. 
We  've  the  Carlists,  the  Bourbons,  the  Amade- 
ists,  the  Alphonsists,  the  Republicans,  the  In- 
transigentes,  the  Montpensierists,  and  anything 
else  you  please.  You  see  everybody  is  poor 
here,  and  everybody  wants  to  live  off  the  gov- 
ernment without  doing  any  work.  So  men  stay 
in  office  until  they  rob  the  treasury  as  much  as 
they  dare,  and  then  retire  on  a  personal  mis- 
understanding." 


EMILIO   CAS TEL AR.  151 

I  began  with  the  beginning,  Her  Most  Cath- 
olic Majesty  Isabella  Segunda.  In  her  ordinary 
costume  she  needs  but  a  dozen  children  and  a 
wash-tub  to  be  a  counterfeit  presentment  of  the 
typical  Biddy.  In  court  dress  Her  Majesty  re- 
sembles a  hideous,  over-stuffed  pincushion  shaped 
like  an  ungainly  bell.  "  She  's  a  good  riddance," 
said  the  clerk.  "  Spaniards  can  stand  a  great 
deal.  They  enjoy  gossip,  and  there  never  was 
so  much  scandal  talked  as  in  Madrid ;  but  the 
Queen  went  too  far,  and  they  were  all  glad  when 
she  departed.  Here  's  the  photograph  of  Mar- 
shal Serrano,  the  man  who  conspired  against 
her.  Is  n't  it  Spanish  for  the  Queen  to  be  driven 
out  of  her  palace  by  an  old  lover1?"  Yes,  it  is 
very  Spanish  and  very  like  Serrano,  for  I  remem- 
ber what  the  Duchess  of  Victoria  said  to  Wash- 
ington Irving  when,  on  the  deposition  of  her 
husband  from  the  Vice-Regency,  Serrano  offered 
her  an  escort  out  of  Spain  :  "  Serrano  professed 


152  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 


to  be  my  husband's  friend ;  he  rose  by  his  friend- 
ship and  favors,  and  he  proved  faithless  to  him. 
I  will  accept  nothing  at  his  hands,  and  beg  his 
name  may  not  again  be  mentioned  to  me." 

"  The  next  thing  Serrano  will  do,  if  he  is  not 
up  to  it  already,"  continued  the  loquacious  clerk, 
"  will  be  to  plot  for  the  return  of  Don  Alphonso 
and  make  himself  Regent.  This  is  the  game 
most  likely  to  succeed.  His  wife,  a  most  ambi- 
tious woman,  —  that  photograph  with  the  long 
nose  and  insincere  mouth  is  she,  —  will  do  all  in 
her  power  to  overthrow  the  republic.  The  aris- 
tocracy has  the  money,  wants  a  court,  and  will 
have  one.  The  Spaniards  love  show.  One  great 
fault  they  found  with  Amadeo  was  his  simplicity 
in  living.  They  did  n't  like  his  conducting  him- 
self after  the  manner  of  ordinary  people.  I  Ve 
seen  him  walk  past  here  unaccompanied,  followed 
by  boys  whose  jeering  forced  him  to  take  refuge 
in  a  shop.     'At  least  our  Queen,   with  all  her 


EMILIO   CASTELAR.  153 

infidelities,  knew  how  to  preserve  her  dignity  in 
public,'  I  have  heard  Spaniards  exclaim.  They 
want  state  carriages  and  pomp.  You  ought  to 
see  a  religious  procession  in  this  town.  There 
is  no  such  private  and  public  display  in  any 
other  part  of  Europe.  Amadeo  was  a  perfect 
gentleman,  yet  he  never  succeeded  in  making 
himself  popular.  He  and  his  wife  did  not  agree 
about  the  church.  He  hated  priests,  and  always 
enjoyed  their  discomfiture.  She  was  very  pious ; 
consequently  between  them  they  contrived  to 
displease  everybody,  for  the  clerical  party  hated 
the  King,  and  the  liberal  party  mistrusted  his 
wife.  Here  is  a  photograph  of  Amadeo  and  his 
suite,  paying  their  last  respects  to  the  dead 
body  of  Prim.  There  was  an  outrage  for  you. 
A  woman  did  that.  Now,  I  like  the  Spaniards 
exceedingly  in  many  ways,  but  they  think  noth- 
ing of  murder.  A  little  money  is  all  one  needs 
to  get  rid  of  an  uncomfortable  enemy." 


154  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

I  recalled  the  execution  of  7,000  Cubans  in 
five  years,  and  thought  that  perhaps  the  garru- 
lous clerk  was  not  entirely  wrong. 

"And  they  think  nothing  of  stealing.  Many 
a  cigar  that  I  have  laid  down  for  a  moment  has 
been  appropriated  by  some  one  of  our  workmen. 
They  are  not  brought  up  with  our  ideas.  In- 
stead of  morals,  they  have  superstitions.  But 
they  are  frequently  kind  and  obliging.  They 
have  good  qualities,  and  any  one  living  among 
them  must  acknowledge  the  fact." 

Next  we  passed  to  the  Carlists.  There  is  a 
jauntiness  about  the  military  men  suggestive  of' 
the  theatre,  and  Don  Carlos  himself  makes  an 
attractive  picture.  Very  dark,  with  regular  fea- 
tures and  full  black  beard,  he  seems  a  gentle- 
man, but  the  weakness  of  his  mouth  betrays 
absence  of  intellect.  After  seeing  his  photograph 
I  was  ready  to  regard  him  as  a  willing  tool  in 
the  hands  of  others,  —  his  wife,  perhaps.     Santa 


EMILIO   CASTELAR.  155 

Cruz,  the  ex-Queen's  ex-confessor,  arrayed  in  the 
nondescript  garb  of  a  Carlist  scout,  looked  the 
incarnation  of  a  cut-throat.  A  more  brutal  phys- 
iognomy I  never  saw. 


Don  Carlos. 

Lastly  we  came  to  the  Republicans,  beginning 
with  Castelar.  For  the  first  time  I  beheld 
thoughtful  faces.  None  of  them,  however,  im- 
pressed me  as  men  of  action  or  of  great  business 
capacity.  I  saw  why  Castelar  had  been  placed 
at  their  head,  and  I  pitied  the  republic. 


156  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

"  Have  you  or  your  friends  faith  in  the  exist- 
ence of  the  present  government  1 " 

"  Government  1  There  is  none.  Everybody  is 
waiting  for  something  to  happen.  Castelar  is  a 
fine  man  and  a  great  orator,  but  you  can't  make 
a  coat  when  you  have  no  cloth.  The  Spaniards 
are  too  ignorant  to  sustain  a  man  like  Castelar 
for  any  length  of  time.  The  very  poorest  people 
sympathize  with  the  Intransigentes ;  but  I  don't 
meet  any  persons  who  are  willing  to  fight  for 
Castelar's  republic^  He  is  accepted  faute  de 
mieux.     Spain  is  not  America,  you  know." 

Armed  with  my  package  of  photographs,  I  next 
strolled  into  a  public  building,  for  no  other  pur- 
pose than  to  chat  with  the  custodian,  who  was 
the  picture  of  benevolence. 

"Are  you  a  republican?"  I  asked. 

The  amiable  old  man  smiled  and  shook  his 
head.  No,  indeed.  He  liked  no  such  ideas.  He 
was  a  Carlist.     He  would  do  nothing  against  the 


EMILIO   CASTELAR.  157 

government :  he  was  too  old  to  fight,  and  his 
family  required  his  help.  If  Don  Carlos  came, 
however,  he  would  rejoice. 

Where  should  I  find  a  Castelar  republican  1 
I  thought  I  discovered  him  in  the  guise  of  an- 
other government  doorkeeper,  a  young  man  with 
fiery  eyes ;  but  he  too  proved  delusive. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  'm  a  republican,  but  not 
such  as  those  who  are  experimenting  now,  al- 
though I  admire  Senor  Castelar.  The  Intransi- 
gentes  offered  to  make  me  a  captain  if  I  would 
join  them,  but  there  are  too  many  rascals  among 
them.  They  want  to  burn  everything,  and  I 
don't." 

Endeavoring  to  ascertain  the  young  fellow's 
principles,  I  found  them  excessively  vague ;  but 
two  things  he  would  not  do,  —  he  would  acknowl- 
edge allegiance  to  neither  Castelar  nor  Cartagena. 
They  might  settle  their  own  quarrels.  He  would 
criticise  and  bide  his  time.     This  he  knew  :  he 


158  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

hated  those  black  flies,  the  priests.  They  had 
made  the  Queen  what  she  was. 

Going  back  to  the  hotel,  I  rang  for  the  Blinker, 
whose  sole  instructions  had  been  to  buy  three 
pounds  of  grapes  a  day  and  spend  the  rest  of  the 
time  in  finding  out  what  shopkeepers  and  such 
people  as  he  came  in  contact  with  thought  of 
republicanism.  The  Blinker  was  himself  as  dem- 
ocratic as  a  flunky  could  be ;  so  I  knew,  if  he 
lied  at  all,  he  would  lie  on  the  right  side. 

"  Well,  what  do  Spaniards  say  to  you  about 
the  government  1 " 

"  Madam,  I  have  known  the  Spaniards  twenty- 
six  years  —  " 

"Yes,  I  am  aware  of  that  fact.  Never  mind 
what  happened  twenty-six  years  ago.  Tell  me 
what  happens  now." 

"  Pardon,  madam.  In  twenty-six  years  I  have 
never  known  the  Spaniards  as  queer  as  they 
are   now.      They   do   nothing   but   abuse   every- 


EMILIO   CASTELAR.  159 

body.  They  are  discontented,  madam,  and  don't 
seem  to  know  what  they  want.  They  call  Sefior 
Castelar  a  '  charmant  gargon,'  who  means  well  : 
but  they  insist  that  Spain  is  not  republican,  and 
they  expect  a  change  in  a  few  months.  They 
would  rather  have  Castelar  than  Don  Carlos; 
but  if  Don  Alphonso  were  of  age,  they  would 
clamor  for  him.  It  looks  as  though  he  would 
come  back,  instead  of  his  mother.  The  Alphon- 
sists  appear  wise,  madam.  They  are  respectable 
people,  and  the  shopkeepers  want  a  court.  No- 
body spends  money  now.  Senor  Castelar  does 
not  even  keep  a  carriage." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  meet  no  real 
republicans  1 " 

"  Parfaitement,  madame." 

Was  my  search  to  be  as  hopeless  as  that  of 
Diogenes  1 


PART    VI. 


%\t  (Bitaxnl  ati^r   fohfofl. 


K 


VI 


A  Child  of  the  Escorial.  —  Spain's  Eighth  "Wonder  of  the  World. 
—  The  Tagus.  —  Toledo's  Streets  and  only  Hotel.  — Mental  Dys- 
pepsia.— Frozen  Music.  —The  Toledan  Cathedral  and  Alcazar. 
— A  Car  list. 


'4 


MIGHT  have  had  two  comfortable  days 
at  Madrid   for  the   study   of  Velasquez 


and  Murillo,  had  not  public  opinion  been  too 
much  for  me.  When  Castelar  asked  whether 
I  were  going  to  Andalusia,  where  he  was  born, 
and  I  answered,  "  No,"  he  said  I  would  see 
nothing  of  Spain.  I  knew  it;  but,  not  having 
visited  Spain  to  become  acquainted  with  the 
country,  T  bore  up  under  the  President's  aston- 
ished gaze.  Seville  was  far  away,  comparatively, 
and    I    could    defy    criticism    concerning   it  ;  but 


164  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

when  the  Escorial  and  Toledo  were  mentioned, 
my  courage  oozed  out  at  the  pores.  Both  were 
too  near  Madrid  to  be  ignored,  and  I  "did" 
them  on  successive  days.  First  came  the  Esco- 
rial, —  built  by  Herrera,  "  architect  of  ennui,'"  — 
the  eighth  wonder  of  the  world  according  to 
Spanish  criticism  ;  the  monstrous  conception  of 
that  tyrant,  monk,  and  hypochondriac,  Philip 
II.,  according  to  my  own.  I  am  not  Murray. 
I  don't  propose  to  furnish  information  that  will 
be  of  the  slightest  use  to  the  most  inexperienced 
traveller.  All  I  shall  relate  is  what  stuck  to 
me  like  burrs  after  the  guide  had  poured  the 
entire  Escorial  into  my  aching  ears.  And  he 
was  an  excellent  guide,  mark  you.  He  had  a 
conscience.  His  father  had  been  a  guide  before 
him.  He  was,  as  it  were,  a  child  of  the  Esco- 
rial, and  felt  that  the  eyes  of  the  Bourbons 
were  upon  him.  He  made  shoes  in  the  dull 
season,  but   all   seasons  were  dull  nowadays,  he 


THE  ESGORIAL  AND    TOLEDO.  165 

said,  and  it  was  very  hard  to  provide  for  his 
family.  He  did  n't  know  how  the  war  would 
end,  for  his  part.  He  was  quite  tired  of  commo- 
tion. He  would  like  an  intelligent  government 
that  educated  the  people.  Whatever  happened, 
he  should  submit.  That  which  most  concerned 
him  was  the  welfare  of  his  wife  and  children. 

I  did  my  utmost  to  excite  the  guide,  but  I 
might  as  well  have  attempted  to  make  the  Es- 
corial  dance.  There  was  a  repose  about  him 
that  would  have  done  credit  to  the  remains  of 
Philip  II.  Perpetual  contact  with  dead  kings 
seemed  to  have  wrought  a  spell  upon  him.  On 
his  brow  I  read  "All  is  vanity."  His  gait  illus- 
trated the  dignity  of  Spain.  In  his  conversation 
there  was  such  submission  to  fate  as  is  some- 
times visible  in  very  much  married  men  and 
women.  Artemus  "Ward's  best  joke  could  not 
have  undermined  his  gravity. 

"  Tell  me,"  I  said,  "  are  all  the  inhabitants 
of  this  place  as  serious  as  you '] " 


166  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

"  There  are  but  a  few  hundred,  Senora.  We 
are  all  more  or  less  connected  with  the  Escorial. 
Our  lives  are  quiet.  We  are  poor.  What  is 
there  to  laugh  at  ]  We  behave  ourselves.  The 
jail  is  always  empty.  In  other  parts  of  Spain 
men  stab  one  another.  Here  the  knife  is  un- 
known. The  only  instance  of  crime  I  remember 
is  recent.  Two  small  and  valuable  paintings 
were  stolen,  and,  as  their  custodian  could  not 
account  for  their  disappearance,  he  has  been 
imprisoned,  but  not  here.  He  was  sent  to 
Madrid.  When  people  want  bread,  Senora,  they 
cannot  think  of  much  else." 

Was  it  not  my  turn  to  be  serious  1 

Five  long  hours  I  wandered  over  the  great, 
yellow,  barren,  gloomy  building,  resting  only  on 
the  finely  carved  bench  in  the  church  choir, 
where  Philip  II.  used  to  sit. 

"He  sat  here,"  said  the  guide,  "because  a 
secret   door   communicates   with    it.      He   could 


THE  ESCORIAL  AND    TOLEDO.  167 

. ~ ■ 1 

come  and  go  without  being  observed,  and  so 
he  kept  the  monks  on  the  alert,  I  assure  you. 
They  treated  themselves  tenderly,  nevertheless. 
The  seats,  you  perceive,  turn  down.  This  is  in 
order  to  afford  standing-room  when  their  occu- 
pants rise ;  but  those  monks  did  not  like  being 
on  their  feet.  You  remark  the  shelves  arranged 
above  the  seats  1  On  them  the  monks  sat  while 
appearing  to  stand  up.  Ah,  ah  !  this  is  very 
shrewd,  very  ingenious."  And  the  guide  almost 
smiled.  It  was  such  an  attempt  at  a  smile  as 
becomes  funerals. 

The  guide  was  a  good  Catholic,  but  he  enter- 
tained very  little  regard  for  priests.  In  this, 
however,  he  is  not  peculiar.  "  Our  religion  is 
one  thing,  our  clergy  quite  another,"  assert  all 
the  Latin  Catholics  I  know.  "  We  don't  wish 
to  become  Protestants.  All  we  desire  is  that 
our  church  shall  mind  its  legitimate  business, 
and  not  interfere  with  temporal  affairs." 


168  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

A  granite  gridiron,  covering  a  regular  paral- 
lelogram of  200  metres,  containing  1010  out- 
side windows,  consuming  twenty -one  years  in 
construction,  costing  unknown  millions  of  francs, 
arising  in  the  midst  of  an  arid,  mountainous 
wilderness  —  for  what?  To  celebrate  the  mis- 
erable pride  and  bigotry  of  a  bad  king.  Thank 
Heaven,  even  Spain  can  never  repeat  the  enor- 
mous, hideous  burlesque  of  the  Escorial.  Apart 
from  harboring  a  few  paintings  and  a  library  of 
rare  books,  art  gains  nothing  by  it  ;  and  the 
time  is  not  far  distant  when  Madrid  will  claim 
both  books  and  canvas.  On  the  ground-floor 
of  one  wing  can  still  be  seen  half  a  dozen  old 
masters,  one  of  which,  a  Rubens,  so  delighted 
the  present  Emperor  of  Brazil  that  he  offered 
to  build  a  fine  hospital  in  exchange  for  it ;  but 
the  government  did  not  dare  to  entertain  the 
proposition.  In  the  dark  corner  of  an  obscure 
room    I    was    shown    an    unframed    portrait    of 


THE  ESCORIAL  AND    TOLEDO.  169 

Isabella  Segunda.  "  We  put  her  here,  Seiiora, 
to  have  her  out  of  harm's  way ;  otherwise  she 
would  be  cut  to  pieces."  In  a  neighboring  gal- 
lery stood  a  clever  wooden  statue  of  St.  Michael 
overcoming  the  Devil.  "  That  has  a  history," 
said  the  guide.  "  It  is  the  work  of  a  very  tal- 
ented female  sculptor.  St.  Michael's  face  is 
her  own.  Handsome,  was  she  not  1  Satan's 
face  is  her  husband's.  Her  lover  was  the  king 
whose  portrait  hangs  opposite,  and  the  eyes  of 
which  are  fixed  upon  St.  Michael.  If  you  write, 
Sefiora,  behold   good  material  !  " 

Of  course  I  visited  the  dark  den  once  inhabited 
by  Philip  II.  Of  course  I  sat  on  the  two  chairs 
dedicated  to  his  gout,  —  Summer  and  Winter. 
Both  were  as  hard  as  the  monarch's  heart ;  and 
then,  by  the  aid  of  a  tallow  candle,  I  descended 
to  the  octagonal  crypt  where  repose  the  mortal 
remains  of  twenty-six  Spanish  kings  and  queens. 
Cold,  cold,  almost  as  cold  as  the  dead,  I  read  the 


170 


TEX  DAYS  IX  SPAIX. 


names  of  Charles  V.,  Philip  II.,  and  Philip  IV. 
I  saw  five  empty  shelves,  and  I  predicted  that 
not  more  than  one  would  ever  be  occupied. 
"  You  '11  have  little  more  royalty  to  stow  away," 
I  said  to  the  guide. 


I/.   _i|M 

The  last  resting-place  of  royalty. 

"  I  do  not  say  you  are  wrong,  Sefiora,  but 
who  can  tell  ?  Yovi  've  no  idea  what  a  people 
we  are  !     Anything  may  happen  to-morrow." 

"  Mariana."     There  it  was  aarain. 


THE  ESCORIAL  AND    TOLEDO.  171 

The  Royal  Gridiron  has  many  corners.  I  do 
believe  I  went  into  every  one  of  them.  Church 
and  palace  were  "  done  "  religiously,  and  when, 
dragging  one  slow  leg  after  the  other,  I  finally 
reached  the  statiou,  in  default  of  chairs  I  dropped 
into  a  wheelbarrow  and  asked  to  be  let  alone. 

"  It  is  well,  Sefiora,"  remarked  the  guide ; 
"  you  have  walked  twenty  miles." 

"  It  is  not  the  walking,  Mr.  Guide,  it  is  the 
miles  I  have  stood  up.     How  many  are  they  1 " 

Strangely  enough  the  guide  could  not  tell 
me.  The  Blinker  attempted  to  make  a  remark, 
but,  as  usual,  threw  no  light  upon  the  subject ; 
and,  when  the  Madrid  train  arrived,  only  an  hour 
late,  I  crawled  into  a  compartment,  feeling  as 
though  I  had  supported  the  dome  of  the  Esco- 
rial  ever  since  its  existence. 

"Long  life  to  you,  Seiiora.  I  hope  I  have 
given  you  satisfaction,"  exclaimed  the  guide.  Sat- 
isfaction !       He    had  given   me   such   an   amount 


172  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

that  I  ached  from  head  to  foot.  I  knew  so 
much  as  to  hope  never  to  know  anything  again. 
Fortunately  "  cramming "  escapes  into  thin  air, 
otherwise  sight-seers  would  blow  themselves  up 
in  a  manner  calculated  to  terrify  high-pressure 
steamboats. 

Being  quite  alive  the  next  morning,  the  Blinker 
and  I  started  at  six  o'clock  for  Toledo.  The 
amount  of  effort  required  to  leave  my  bed,  and, 
as  usual,  go  without  breakfast,  drew  so  largely 
on  my  moral  courage  that  I  felt  another  such 
call  would  kill  me.  In  flying  to  evils  that  you 
know  not  of  there  is  the  bliss  of  ignorance,  but 
in  deliberately  embracing  slow  torture  there  is 
not  even  the  satisfaction  of  novelty.  Between 
travelling  on  a  snail's  back  and  a  Spanish  rail- 
road there  is  little  choice,  saving  in  matter  of 
accommodation.  The  road  to  Toledo  is  no  better 
than  that  of  the  North,  while  the  scenery  is  in- 
finitely worse.     Flat  and  uncultivated,  the  coun- 


THE  ESCORT AL  AND    TOLEDO.  173 


try  seemed  branded  with  a  curse,  and  not  until 
we  arrived  at  Aranjuez,  half-way  between  Madrid 
and  Toledo,  did  life  begin  to  assert  itself.  Hav- 
ing no  curiosity  to  inspect  the  "Spanish  Fon- 
tainebleau,"  where  once  stood  a  temple  of  Jupiter, 
—  Ara  Jovis,  hence  Aranjuez,  —  I  accepted  it  on 
faith,  contenting  myself  with  glimpses  of  that 
"  mighty  river,"  the  Tagus,  375  miles  long,  yet 
so  inhospitable  as  to  receive  few  towns  upon  its 
banks  and  to  welcome  no  commerce  upon  its 
waters.  No  sensation  could  be  extracted  from  it. 
Mud  is  mud,  though  called  the  Tagus,  and  if  I 
must  gaze  upon  rivers  of  it,  give  me  my  own, 
my  native  Mississippi. 

At  noon  I  saw  a  city  set  on  a  hill.  We 
stopped.  It  was  Toledo.  Leaving  the  cars  at  a 
ragged  station  and  running  the  gantlet  of  beg- 
gars,—  there  were  twenty  beggars  to  three  pas' 
sengers,  giving  us  six  beggars  and  two  thirds 
of  a   beggar  apiece,  —  we   took  refuge   in  a  re- 


174  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

markable  vehicle,  courteously  called  an  omnibus, 
the  only  public  conveyance  known  to  Toledo. 
Passenger  No.  3  hobnobbed  with  the  Blinker, 
and  exhibited  a  curiosity  regarding  our  move- 
ments that  would  have  brought  a  blush  to  even 
a  Yankee  cheek.  The  driver,  a  man  of  immense 
stature,  scowled  at  us  for  not  being  more  numer- 
ous, and,  with  a  round  oath  and  much  snapping 
of  his  long  whip,  started  his  four  mules  up  the 
hill.  Why  Spanish  mules  should  wear  bells,  and 
why  they  should  require  so  much  beating,  I  don't 
know,  but  they  certainly  get  a  deal  of  both. 
Every  saint  in  the  calendar  was  called  upon  by 
the  driver  to  witness  the  ingratitude,  the  ob- 
stinacy, the  total  depravity,  of  those  animated 
mules,  that  I  thought  were  exerting  themselves 
to  pieces.  Through  clouds  of  dust  we  whirled 
over  the  bridge  of  Alcantara,  thrown  across  the 
deep-set,  winding  Tagus,  up  a  second  steep  hill, 
in  and  out  of  the  narrowest,  queerest,  quaintest, 


TEE  ESCOEIAL  AND    TOLEDO.  175 

most  impossible  streets,  under  an  archway,  and 
then  we  found  ourselves  at  the  Fonda  de  Lino, 
the  only  hotel  the  guide-books  dare  to  mention. 

"  First  I  want  something  to  eat,  and  then  I 
want  the  guide  Cabezas,"  said  I  to  the  propri- 
etor, on  descending  from  the  noble  omnibus. 

"You  can't  have  Cabezas,"  replied  the  ever- 
important  Blinker,   "because  he  is  dead." 

"  How  do  you  know  1 " 

"  Because  he  was  buried  shortly  after  my  last 
visit  to  Toledo." 

"  Who  says  I  'm  dead  1  I  'm  nothing  of  the 
sort.  I  'm  as.  alive  as  he,  Seiiora."  And  up  hob- 
bled a  withered  old  man,  who  was  no  other  than 
Cabezas  himself. 

It  is  not  pleasant  to  be  told  you  are  dead  and 
buried  before  you  have  stopped  breathing.  Cabe- 
zas looked  cross,  but  the  Blinker  received  him 
with  a  pitying  smile,  as  if  to  say,  "  I  accept  your 
apology  for  being  alive,  but  don't  do  it  again,  my 


176  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

old  fellow.  You  ought  to  be  dead,  you  know. 
Be  sure  you  are  so  before  I  return." 

Though  alive  and  hobbling,  Cabezas,  who  knows 
every  nail  and  stone  of  Toledo,  could  not  accom- 
pany me  in  my  tour  of  the  tortuous  old  town, 
"because  you  see,  Sefiora,  there  are  two  guides 
and  very  little  to  do.  You  are  the  first  foreigner 
we  have  had  for  a  month.  We  divide  the  work. 
I  went  last,  so  the  other  guide,  who  is  good, 
must  go  with  you." 

Colonel  John  Hay,  in  his  charming  "Castilian 
Days,"  the  atmosphere  of  which  is  as  clear  and 
bright  as  Castile  itself,  advises  travellers  to  ig- 
nore guides  at  Toledo ;  nevertheless,  if  Colonel 
Hay  had  but  a  few  hours  to  devote  to  many 
centuries,  I  think  he  would  hire  the  fastest  pos- 
sible engine  to  rush  through  them.  Who  can 
saunter  with  one  eye  on  a  watch  and  the  other 
on  a  railroad1? 

If  the  Fonda  de  Lino  be  a  specimen  of  Toledan 


THE  ESCORIAL   AND    TOLEDO.  177 


housekeeping,  I  am  not  surprised  that  the  num- 
ber of  inhabitants  has  been  reduced  from  200,000 
to  17,000.  The  marvel  is  that  anybody  can  be 
prevailed  upon  to  remain  over  night,  or,  remain- 
ing, does  not  die  before  morning.  The  longer  I 
live  the  more  amazed  I  become  at  the  quantities 
of  people  in  existence.  Ushei'ed  into  the  eating- 
room,  I  sat  before  a  table  at  which  several  Span- 
iards were  devouring  knives  and  pork.  Not  being 
able  to  digest  either,  I  ordered  beefsteak  and  tea, 
whereupon  the  Spaniards  nudged  one  another 
and  said,  "  English  !  "  When  the  steak  came  I 
shuddered.  It  was  very  thin,  very  stringy,  very 
young,  had  been  fried,  and  was  flavored  with 
vinegar.  The  bread  was  sour,  and  the  tea !  well, 
it  was  that  pink  kind  of  tea,  found  only  in  Italy 
and  Spain,  which  tastes  like  some  unknown 
medicine  and  excites  a  mild  form  of  nausea  as 
it  goes  down.  Pounds  would  not  make  it  strong 
enough  to  come  up  again. 


178  TEN  BAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

Thus  fortified,  I  began  my  pilgrimage.  Guide- 
books state  that  it  requires  a  year  to  become 
acquainted  with  Toledo.  More  exacting  still, 
M.  Villa  Amil  declares  that  after  studying  its 
treasures  nine  months  you  know  nothing  about 
them.  '  This  is  encouraging  to  a  traveller  on  the 
wing,  particularly  after  being  presented  with  a 
monograph  entitled  Toledo  en  la  memo,  in  two 
volumes  of  1550  pages.  After  this  "handful" 
I  gave  up  trying  to  know  anything  about  Toledo. 
All  I  can  say  is  that  I  was  introduced  to  the 
town  with  much  ceremony,  and  have  an  indefi- 
nite idea  of  its  features,  which  are  such  a  mix- 
ture of  Goth,  Moor,  Jew,  and  Christian  that,  at 
the  end  of  six  hours,  I  suffered  from  as  acute 
an  indigestion  as  though  I  had  swallowed  an 
architectural  mince-pie.  If  I  lived  in  Toledo  I 
should  go  mad.  The  conjunction  of  so  much 
history,  so  much  live  art,  and  so  much  dead 
nature  would   set   my  brain   on   fire  with  conun- 


THE  E SCO  RIAL   AND    TOLEDO.  179 

drums.  There  is  nothing  more  tragic  than  living 
among  great  things  and  little  people.  The  very 
air  is  heavy  with  hopeless  age,  and  stifles  with 
every  breath.  I  never  felt  so  thankful  for 
America  as  while  walking  through  those  narrow 
Toledan  streets,  every  stone  of  which  could  tell 
tales  of  bloodshed  and  violence.  The  wildest 
Western  settlement,  populated  with  the  most  dis- 
couraging stumps,  became  in  my  eyes  a  far  more 
tolerable  home.  Meditation  belongs  to  the  past, 
aspiration  to  the  future.  There  is  more  hope  in 
a  pioneer's  log-cabin  than  in  all  Toledo's  monu- 
ments, and,  platitude  or  no  platitude,  I  must  ask, 
What  is  life  worth  without  hope1?  Time,  that 
has  reduced  the  "  city  of  the  Visigoths "  from 
great  riches  to  pauperism,  may  bring  about  a 
still  more  wondrous  revolution,  but  Time's  wheel 
turns  slowly  in  dead  latitudes.  Before  this 
change  takes  place,  all  Europe  will  be  republi- 
can,  Spain's  deserts  will  become  oases,   and  the 


180 


TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 


United  States  will  be  governed  by  its  best  and 
honestest  brains.     After  —  the  millennium  ! 


A  street  in  Toledo. 

Touching  both  sides  of  the  streets  with  my 
hands,  I  was  first  taken  to  a  beautiful  Moorish 
house,  now  the  residence  of  a  banker.  "  Look," 
said  the  guide,  and  as  I  entered  the  great  door 
I  saw  a  modern  carriage.  "  It  is  the  only  car- 
riage   in    town,   Seiiora,   and    when   the   banker's 


THE  ESCORIAL  AND    TOLEDO.  181 

family  drive  they  go  round  and  round  the 
square."  As  the  square  is  very  small  and  ex- 
ceedingly crowded,  this  dissipation  in  horse-flesh 
must  be  excessive.  However,  the  satisfaction  of 
doing  what  nobody  else  can  afford  may  compen- 
sate for  unparalleled  monotony. 

Not  to  admire  Moorish  architecture  is  to  be 
incapable  of  appreciation.  Its  sad,  solemn  beauty 
and  exquisite  taste  made  me  think  of  minor  keys, 
and  how  truly  Madame  de  Stael  had  called  archi- 
tecture "  frozen  music."  Chopin's  dreamiest  noc- 
turnes and  reveries  came  into  my  head,  and  then 
harmony  would  be  disturbed  by  contact  with  great 
Gothic  pillars  or  portals.  Thus  it  happened  that 
all  through  the  town  my  nerves  were  shocked 
by  discords,  —  Goth  and  Jew  rudely  jostling  the 
Moor,  who  alone  preserved  the  dignity  of  repose, 
as  if  conscious  of  superior  art.  Through  sight 
my  ear  was  charmed  one  moment  to  be  tortured 
the  next,  and  I  quickly  found  another  reason  for 


182  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

preferring  the  backwoods  to  Toledo.  What  mu- 
sician can  endure  false  notes  1  Thus  tortured,  I 
sympathized  with  Gautier  and  Irving  in  their 
lamentations  over  the  downfall  of  the  Moors. 
"  For  my  part,"  says  the  Frenchman,  "  I  've 
always  regretted  that  the  Moors  did  not  remain 
masters  of  Spain,  which  has  only  lost  by  their 
expulsion."  "They  deserved  this  beautiful  coun- 
try," writes  the  American.   "  They  won  it  bravely; 

they  enjoyed  it  generously  and  kindly I  am 

at  times  almost  ready  to  join  in  sentiment  with 
a  worthy  friend  and  countryman  of  mine,  whom 
I  met  in  Malaga,  who  swears  the  Moors  are  the 
only  people  that  ever  deserved  the  country,  and 
prays  to  heaven  they  may  come  over  from  Africa 
and  conquer  it  again."  Who  knows  but  they 
may]  Stranger  things  have  happened;  and  why 
do  the  Moors  jealously  cherish  the  keys  belong- 
ing to  their  old  homes,  if  it  be  not  with  the  hope 
of  some  time  turning  them  in  the  rusty  locks  % 


THE  ESCORIAL   AND    TOLEDO.  183 

The  queer  turns,  the  sharp  corners  (now  rounded) 
in  the  streets,  were  for  what  1  For  fighting.  Ah, 
well,  the  world  is  not  perfect,  but,  in  spite  of  ar- 
chitecture and  sculpture,  I  don't  think  it  has  ret- 
rograded.  From  ruin  to  ruin,  from  beggar  to  beg- 
gar, from  church  to  church,  we  passed  into  the 
cathedral,  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  in  build- 
ing, costing  the  architect,  Pedro  Perez,  fifty  years 
of  his  life.  What  modern  architect  would  give 
his  existence  to  one  woi'k  "?  Nothing  but  the  pa- 
tience of  genius  can  so  dedicate  itself.  Though 
very  noble,  there  is  much  that  is  theatrical  about 
the  interior  of  the  building.  As  in  most  Span- 
ish cathedrals,  the  choir,  being  in  the  centre,  de- 
stroys the  grandeur  of  the  coiip-cVceil.  The  se- 
vere simplicity  of  the  Cologne  cathedral  is  infi- 
nitely more  impressive,  but  I  dared  not  say  so, 
for  Toledo  is  as  dependent  upon  its  cathedral  as 
the  play  of  "  Hamlet "  is  upon  the  melancholy 
Dane. 


184  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

Obstructive  though  it  be,  the  choir  is  a  mar- 
vel of  ingenuity  in  itself,  the  three  rows  of  wooden 
stalls  carved  by  Philippe  de  Bourgogne  et  de 
Berrugnete  being  marvels  of  ingenuity.  The  art 
—  Gothic  bordering  upon  the  Renaissance  —  can- 
not be  called  sacred,  unless  monkeys  pursuing 
their,  own  tails,  and  the  strangest  of  unknown 
animals  in  the  most  ludicrous  of  poses,  exhale  a 
religious  atmosphere;  but,  as  carving,  it  is  irre- 
proachable. While  I  sat  in  the  archbishop's  stall 
the  custodian  showed  me  a  great  gash  on  his 
head,  received  two  years  before,  from  two  men, 
who  felled  him  to  the  floor,  bound  him,  and  then 
robbed  the  church  of  jewels.  They  were  after- 
wards arrested,  recognized,  and  imprisoned. 

"Ever  since  the  blow  I  've  been  deaf,"  said 
the  custodian. 

"Yes  ;  and  when  those  rascals  come  out  of 
prison  they  will  kill  you,"  rejoined  my  guide. 
"Better   to   have   made   no   struggle   and    given 


THE  E SCO  RIAL  AND    TOLEDO.  185 

no   alarm.      Your   hearing  will   go   from   bad  to 
worse." 

The  good-natured  custodian  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders, and  seemed  content  to  have  done  his  duty. 
How  many  victims  to  virtue  are"?  Would  the 
sacristan  allow  us  to  see  the  custodia  of  gilded 
silver  with  a  "  richesse  inouie  "  of  ornament,  inlaid 
with  diamonds  and  emeralds,  costing  three  gen- 
erations of  artists  a  century's  labor,  the  Virgin's 
mantle  containing  eighty-five  thousand  pearls? 

"No,"  replied  the  sacristan,  looking  very  hard 
at  me.  "  A  woman  tried  to  steal  some  of  the 
jewels  recently." 

I  did  not  feel  crushed  by  the  imputation,  be- 
cause I  knew  a  valuable  douceur  was  what  the 
sacristan  wanted.  I  would  not  allow  the  Blinker 
to  give  it,  and  so  I  was  a  thief  in  disguise.  How 
that  sacristan  scowled  when  we  walked  away, 
and  how  I  wanted  to  devote  those  useless  jewels 
to  redeeming  Toledo  from  dirt  and  ignorance  ! 


186  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

In  his  "Handful"  of  Toledo,  M.  Parros  de- 
votes 745  pages  to  the  cathedral.  Do  you  think 
then  that  I  dare  touch  an  inexhaustible  subject] 
I  will  not  even  mention  the  Virgin  Mary's  ap- 
pearance to  St.  Ildefonso,  nor  speak  of  a  Tole- 
dan  masterpiece,  the  Puerta  del  Sol,  but  will 
ask  you  to  gaze  at  a  unique  scene  from  the  top 
of  the  long-unfinished  Alcazar,  which  stands  on 
the  highest  point  of  the  town.  Toledo  lay  sleep- 
ing at  my  feet,  and  the  lazy  Tagus  wound  around 
it  like  a  horseshoe.  Thankful  that  sight-seeing 
was  off  my  mind  and  legs,  —  six  hours  had  all 
three  been  tramping,  —  I  gave  myself  up  to  the 
quiet  delight  of  breathing  the  soft,  pure  air  that 
fanned  us.  It  was  a  fine  picture,  —  Toledo  with 
its  quaint,  gray  towers,  turrets,  and  cathedral 
dome,  and  the  naked  russet  hills  that  lost  their 
look  of  poverty  and  desolation  in  their  reflected 
glow  of  rich,  warm  sunshine. 

"Is  Toledo  healthy?"  I  asked  the  guide. 


THE  E SCO  RIAL  AND   TOLEDO.  187 

"  Not  very,  Seiiora.  We  have  fevers  because 
we  have  no  drainage,  and  the  river  is  very  low 
and  poisonous  in  summer.  No  one  dares  drink 
it." 

Politically  Toledo  is  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain 
of  Castile.  Its  brains,  like  its  monuments,  are  in 
ruins,  and  cling  to  the  past,  the  dearest  souve- 
nir of  which  is  Carlism.  Still  seeking  my  Repub- 
lican, I  thought  he  might  be  found  in  an  intelli- 
gent guide,  but  the  guide  shook  his  head. 

"No,  Seiiora,  I  am  a  Carlist.  Have  you 
remarked  the  deep  gash  on  my  face  ?  That  is 
a  trophy  of  which  I  am  proud.  I  got  it  fight- 
ing for  the  Carlists.  And  there  are  other 
wounds  about  my  person.  Now  I  'm  too  old 
to  fight.  One  of  our  principal  citizens  raised 
a  company  of  two  hundred  volunteers  about  ten 
days  ago  and  went  off  to  join  Don  Carlos.  They 
did  n't  all  leave  at  once,  you  know.  The  deed 
was  accomplished  gradually,  and  the  men  wore 


188  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

their  ordinary  clothes.  But  before  starting 
the  Carlists  did  us  great  service.  The  country 
about  here  had  been  infested  with  brigands. 
The  Carlists  planned  an  expedition  and  captured 
twenty -seven  of  them.  Now  we  take  long 
breaths.  There  are  Carlists  in  disguise  among 
the  mountains  here,  acting  as  spies  upon  the 
government  and  upon  brigands.  Republicans 
will  tell  you  that  Carlists  are  bandits,  but  don't 
you  believe  it,  Sehora.  They  are  gentlemen. 
We  've  a  fine  lot  of  Republicans  in  Toledo. 
They  threaten  to  destroy  the  town.  What  did 
they  do  a  month  ago  but  attempt  to  burn  down 
our  glorious  cathedral  !  Think  of  that !  But 
our  best  people  heard  of  the  plot,  and  frus- 
trated it  by  surrounding  the  cathedral  before  the 
arrival  of  the  incendiaries.  They  can't  do  that 
sort  of  thing,  you  know.  We  won't  endure 
it." 

"  But  surely  these  men  are  not  Republicans 


THE  E SCO  RIAL  AND   TOLEDO.  189 

like  Castelar.  They  do  not  support  the  gov- 
ernment. " 

"  No  ;  they  are  Intransigentes.  The  govern- 
ment Republicans  behave  very  well ;  only  we 
don't  like  them.     We  want  our  King." 

The  setting  sun  warned  us  of  the  approaching 
train,  and  we  sauntered  back  to  the  omnibus, 
taking  en  route  an  old  curiosity  -  shop.  There 
were  Toledo  blades  made  in  Sheffield  that  I 
refused  to  buy,  notwithstanding  the  Maid  of  Sara- 
gossa  wrought  upon  the  handles.  I  contented 
myself  with  bearing  off  a  noble  Moorish  nail, 
and  then  learned  how  an  appreciative  Frenchman 
had  recently  bought  several  hundred  of  these 
unique  nails  with  which  to  stud  the  great  doors 
of  his  new  Parisian  hotel.  Toledo  is  a  paradise 
of  bric-a-brac.  When  I  make  my  fortune  writing 
for  newspapers,  I  shall  follow  the  Frenchman's 
example,  and,  hitting  the  right  nail  on  the  head, 
ask  for  Moor  ! 


190  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN 

How  I  enjoyed  that  return  trip  to  Madrid  ! 
We  were  only  three  hours  behind  time,  and  the 
dinner-party  I  was  to  have  joined  at  nine  o'clock 
did  coldly  furnish  forth  a  midnight  supper-table, 
at  which  the  guests  were  as  conversational  as 
blinking  owls. 


PART   VII. 


fast  §ag  in  3$U*n&. 


VII. 


il 

I 

A  Disappointment.  —A  Model  Banker.  —Buying  a  Mantilla.  — 
Seeing  the  Cortes.  —  Interview  with  Figueras.  —  A  Carlist 
Nobleman.  —  Farewell  to  Madrid.  —  Giggling  Nuns. 

T  was  my  last  day  in  Madrid,  and  Presi- 
dent Castelar  had  offered  to  call  at  noon. 
"  Too  good  to  be  true,"  I  said,  yet  prepared  for 
the  best,  by  drawing  up  a  series  of  questions  that 
reduced  Spain  to  a  catechism.  Twelve  o'clock 
came  and  went,  half  past  twelve,  one  o'clock,  half 
past  one,  two  o'clock,  yet  no  Castelar,  and  no  let- 
ter. He  had  forgotten  the  engagement,  or  he  was 
ill,  or  he  had  sniffed  that  catechism  afar  off,  and 
preferred  breaking  his  word  to  facing  its  inter- 
rogations. I  was  extremely  sorry,  for,  having 
9  M 


194  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

gone  to  Spain  solely  to  see  Castelar,  it  seemed 
a  pity  not  to  get  beyond  the  cuticle  of  ac- 
quaintanceship ;  but  one  interview  was  all  that 
I  had  reason  to  expect,  and  if  he  denied  me 
the  volunteered  luxury  of  a  second,  I  could  not 
complain.  There  are  women  who  never  pardon 
a  man's  forgetfulness,  though  he  carry  state 
cares  upon  his  shoulders.  I  put  myself  in  Cas- 
telar's  place,  forgave  him  at  two  o'clock  pre- 
cisely, and  then  went  in  search  of  a  banker. 
I  found  him  in  a  quiet  little  office,  where,  in 
the  brogue  of  an  Irishman,  I  heard  how  he  had 
known  Washington  Irving  intimately  ;  how  charm- 
ing Irving  was  ;  how  he  had  met  all  the  nice 
Americans  visiting  Spain.  Then  the  banker, 
taking  a  singularly  long  time  to  sign  his  name 
to  the  necessary  papers,  gracefully  referred  to 
American  women,  and  later  glided  upon  the 
subject  of  Spain.  He  would  not,  could  not  be- 
lieve in  the  permanency  of  the  republic.      The 


LAST  DAY  IN  MADRID.  195 


Spaniards  —  he  knew  them  well  —  were  not  im- 
bued with  self-sacrificing  patriotism.  What  they 
possessed  was  incarnate  egotism.  Mr.  Banker 
refused  to  modify  his  statements.  I  could  get 
no  republicanism  out  of  him,  although  I  got 
money  on  a  letter  of  credit  that  he  knew  to  be 
worthless.  He  gave  me  gold  without  charging 
the  customary  premium,  and  told  me  to  be  rid 
of  the  bank-notes  before  leaving  Madrid.  The 
Bank  of  Spain  is  not  trusted  outside  of  the 
capital.  A  fine  commentary  on  Peninsular 
finances,  is  it  not  % 

With  money  in  my  purse,  I  felt  that  I  must 
buy  something  Spanish,  something  that  would 
recall  my  wild  chase  after  a  republic,  something 
that  I  could  hand  down  to  posterity  as  a  relic  of 
my  Peninsular  campaign.  Spanish  fans  are  now 
made  in  France ;  in  fact,  the  only  bit  of  a  wo- 
man's toilet  not  imported  from  France  is  the 
mantilla,    with    which,   according    to    some  witty 


196  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

Parisian,  a  woman  must  be  as  ugly  as  the  three 
theological  virtues  in  order  not  to  be  pretty. 

When  I  went  to  call  upon  a  pretty  Spanish 
woman,  she  knew  just  how  to  buy  a  mantilla. 
"  You  must  not  go  into  a  shop,"  she  said.  "  Only 
foreigners  do  that,  and  get  cheated.  There  are 
women  merchants  who  go  from  house  to  house 
selling  the  property  of  ladies.  The  Spanish  wo- 
men are  great  traders.  Even  the  rich  sell  their 
dresses  when  they  tire  of  them,  and  now  that 
times  are  hard  there  is  a  great  deal  of  old  lace 
in  the  market  at  reasonable  rates.  Many  are 
disposing  of  real  lace  mantillas,  and  I  can  get 
you  one  cheap.  The  saleswoman  will  be  here 
directly;  but  let  me  warn  you  against  showing 
any  eagerness  about  purchasing.  Double  the 
amount  is  asked  that  the  woman  will  take,  and 
your  indifference  will  lead  to  a  reduction  of  prices. 
Now  remember." 

In   came  the  little  old  woman,  and   I  remem- 


LAST  DAY  IN  MADRID. 


197 


bered.  With  desire  iu  my  heart,  but  nonchalance 
in  my  manner,  I  turned  Jew.  I  would  give  so 
much.  The  woman  declared  that  the  lady  to 
whom  the  mantilla  belonged  would  kill  her  if  she 


-*& 


Bargaining  for  a  mantilla. 


did  not  obtain  twice  the  sum.  I  laughed  at  the 
imposition.  The  little  old  woman  delivered  an 
oration  to  prove  how,  since  the  beginning  of  the 
world,  there   never  had  been  anything  so  cheap. 


198  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders.  The  little  old  woman 
held  the  mantilla  before  the  light,  that  I  might  see 
the  beauty  of  the  rich  black  lace.  She  would  part 
with  the  last  hair  on  her  head  before  she  would 
take  one  real  less  for  such  a  work  of  art.  The 
north  pole  could  not  have  melted  less  than  I. 
0,  very  well  then,  the  little  old  woman  would  go 
elsewhere.  She  would  not  basely  sacrifice  her 
client's  property;  and  to  my  dismay  I  saw  her 
pack  up  the  mantillas  and  bid  us  good  morning. 

"  Give  yourself  no  concern,"  said  the  pretty, 
amiable  Sehora ;  "  she  will  return.  That  is  part 
of  the  play ;  and  when  she  says  you  can  have 
the  mantilla  for  the  price  we  named,  give  her  an 
extra  dollar  for  hex-self.     It  is  always  expected." 

Truly  enough,  after  making  an  excited  exit,  the 
little  old  woman  returned,  and,  with  a  bland- 
ness  that  nothing  but  consummate  schooling 
could  have  produced,  presented  the  coveted  man- 
tilla.    The  gift  of  one  dollar  made  the  little  old 


LAST  DAY  IN  MADRID.  199 

woman  beam  with  satisfaction,  and,  piling  bene- 
dictions upon  my  head,  she  left  me  mistress  of 
a  real  Spanish  mantilla,  which  sober  second 
thought  informed  me  was  about  as  "  handy  to 
have  in  the  house"  as  Toodles's  door-plate  of 
"  Thompson  with  a  p." 

"  Never  mind,"  I  whispered,  coaxingly,  to  con- 
science ;  "  it  was  cheap." 

Conscience  is  very  frank.  Conscience  is  one 
of  those  disagreeable  friends  that,  for  principle's 
sake,  always  tells  the  truth.  "  Is  anything  you 
do  not  want  cheap  at  any  price  1 " 

I  turned  the  conversation  immediately. 

'T  is  but  a  step  from  dress  to  politics,  and  I 
took  it.  There  stood  a  most  obliging  deputy 
waiting  to  show  us  the  Cortes.  He  thought 
Spain  in  a  bad  way  ;  he  did  not  know  what  would 
be  the  end  of  it ;  of  course  he  hoped  for  the  best. 
He  was  debonnair,  and  looked  as  though  he  might 
comfortably  survive  the  loss  of  the  republic ;  but 


200  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

already  I  was  becoming  accustomed  to  the  Span- 
ish happy-go-lucky  way  of  treating  revolutions. 
One  thing  the  kindly  deputy  did  know,  that 
Castelar  was  ill  in  bed  with  one  of  his  bilious 
headaches,  and  could  not  see  any  of  the  govern- 
ment until  late  in  the  afternoon.  This,  then, 
accounted  for  Castelar's  broken  promise  to  me, 
and  I  was  doubly  sorry. 

There  is  nothing  remarkable  about  the  Spanish 
Cortes.  Plain  externally,  it  has  numerous  well- 
furnished  committee-rooms,  containing  modern 
portraits  and  paintings  of  no  artistic  value,  while 
its  Chamber  of  Deputies,  arranged  like  an  amphi- 
theatre, is  remarkable  for  nothing  but  its  deeds. 
The  Bourbon  crown,  the  Queen's  portrait,  have 
been  removed,  but  the  great  doors  by  which  Her 
Majesty  used  to  enter  have  never  been  thrown 
open  to  the  President.  The  odor  of  royalty  still 
clings  to  the  Cortes. 

"Are  you  a  well-behaved  body  1"  I  asked. 


LAST  DAY  IN  MADRID.  201 


The  good  -  natured  deputy  smiled,  and  the 
amiable  senora  replied,  "Well  behaved  1  They 
act  like  children.  They  exercise  no  self-control. 
You  never  in  your  life  heard  such  a  noise 
as  they  make.  And  then  how  they  use  up 
carpets !  Spit,  spit,  spit !  They  are  forever 
spitting;  and  what  would  happen  to  a  woman's 
skirts  if  she  came  upon  the  floor,  I  leave  you 
to  imagine." 

"  Did  the  rain  of  expectoration  set  in  with  the 
reign  of  the  republic  1 " 

"  0  no.  It  has  always  been.  I  see  no  differ- 
ence." 

Here  was  a  revelation.  The  noble  art  of  spit- 
ting is  not  confined  to  the  Western  Hemisphere. 
It  is  not  peculiar  to  republican  institutions.  I 
breathe  more  freely.  Shakespeare's  Rosalind  de- 
clares that  "very  good  orators,  when  they  are  out, 
they  will  spit."  This  was  centuries  ago,  so  per- 
haps, after  all,  it  is  the  noble  gift  of  oratory  with 
9* 


202  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

which  our  country  is  blessed  that  induces  a  less 
pleasing  deluge. 

Once  more  at  my  hotel,  I  had  begun  to  pack 
my  bundle,  when  Senor  Figueras,  then  President 
of  the  Cortes,  was  announced.  I  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  a  tall,  dark,  affable,  courteous,  en- 
lightened gentleman,  a  lawyer  by  profession,  a 
republican  from  conviction.  He  welcomed  me  to 
Spain,  because  I  was  an  American  ;  he  spoke  of 
his  own  country  calmly.  He  thought  the  repub- 
lic would  succeed,  not  because  there  were  so 
many  republicans,  but  because  there  were  seven 
monarchical  parties  opposed  to  one  another,  all  of 
which  preferred  the  republic  to  the  triumph  of 
any  other  enemy.  That  very  day  an  Alphonsist 
general  had  frankly  avowed  the  impossibility  of 
,  putting  Alphonso  on  the  throne  for  several  years. 
"  Let  the  republic  endure  several  years,"  added 
Senor  Figueras,  "and  the  monarchy  can  have 
no  chance.     It  is  the  present  that  concerns  us. 


LAST  DAY  IN  MADRID.  203 

But  whether  the  republic  endures  or  not,  Cuban 
slavery  is  doomed.  Spain  is  committed  to  abo- 
lition, and  cannot  imperil  her  honor." 

If  all  Spain  were  made  up  of  Castelars  and 
Figuerases,  certainly  not ;  but  has  Spain  never 
said  one  thing  and  done  another1? 

Seiior  Figueras  stated  that  the  bourgeois  class 
was  not  republican.  Seiior  Castelar  had,  to  my 
amazement,  maintained  the  reverse.  In  the  dis- 
agreement of  doctors,  I  followed  my  own  observa- 
tion, and  believed  Seiior  Figueras.  Shopkeepers 
rarely  rise  above  their  pockets.  The  President 
of  the  Cortes  saw  a  brilliant  future  for  Spain. 
She  was  the  richest  country  in  Europe  ;  she  pos- 
sessed enormous  wealth  in  unworked  mines ;  she 
had  great  possibilities  in  grain ;  her  flour  was  the 
finest  in  the  world.  All  would  come  with  good 
government,  education,  skilled  labor,  and  rail- 
roads. Ay,  verily,  Seiior  Figueras.  Spain's  re- 
demption   is  a   mere  question  of  time,  but  how 


204  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 


long  a  time  1  Then  I  was  told  that  Spain  had  no 
Finance  Minister,  no  General,  and  that  the  army 
officers  were  monarchists. 

"  In  the  name  of  all  that  is  possible,  how  can 
you  make  headway  against  an  empty  treasury, 
no  commander,  and  lukewarm  officers  1 "  I  asked. 
"  Does  not  this  account  for  the  prolonged  resist- 
ance of  Carlists  and  Intransigentes  1 " 

Senor  Figueras  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but 
smiled  hopefully.  He  had  faith  in  his  cause, 
knew  that  it  must  succeed  sooner  or  later,  and 
was  willing  to  sacrifice  himself  to  it.  If,  like 
Sodom,  the  Spanish  republic  can  be  saved  by  one 
honest  man,  there  need  be  no  fear. 

The  republic  has  no  military  leader,  while 
there  are  six  generals  and  one  hundred  and  fifty 
brigadier-generals  in  Spain.  What  a  commen- 
tary ! 

It  was  growing  dark  ;  even  Spanish  trains  start 
some  time,  and  I  was  forced  to  bid  Senor  Figueras 


LAST  DAY  IN  MADRID.  205 

farewell  much  sooner  than  I  wished.  He  hoped 
to  visit  America ;  perhaps  he  would  "  assist "  at 
our  Centennial  celebration.  Until  then  —  And 
when  the  door  closed  I  said  to  my  doubting  self, 
"Spain  is  not  to  be  despised  when  she  can  give 
birth  to  a  Castelar  and  a  Figueras.  Other  sons 
may  be  nobler  than  I  think,  and  her  daughters 
may  only  require  opportunity  to  exhibit  the  finest 
womanly  traits." 

I  had  asked  to  see  an  eminently  respectable 
Spaniai-d  who  actually  believed  in  Don  Carlos, 
and  one  of  the  kindest-hearted  Americans  that 
ever  lived  thirty  years  away  from  home  served 
a  Carlist  for  my  dessert  at  dinner.  He  was  a 
nobleman,  good-natured,  fat,  utterly  incapable  of 
mental  or  physical  exertion,  and  said  little.  The 
contrast  between  him  and  the  republicans  was 
so  marked  that  I  again  took  my  doubting  self 
into  a  comer  and  whispered,  "  If  intelligence  wins 
in  the  long   run,  the   republicans,    though   they 


206  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 


be  one  to  one  hundred,  must  gain  the  victory." 
The  ponderous  way  in  which  that  Carlist  sat 
down  on  everything,  and  did  not  realize  his  own 
absurdity,  amazed  me  more  than  the  Escorial 
itself ;  for  the  Escorial  is  as  dead  as  Death,  while 
this  Carlist  was  alive,  read  a  newspaper  occasion- 
ally, and  could  listen,  if  he  would,  to  Castelar's 
thrilling  orations. 

The  hour  of  bills  and  farewells  at  last  arrived, 
and  it  is  hard  to  say  which  was  the  more  touched, 
—  heart  or  pocket.  Madrid  is  not  the  poor  trav- 
ellers' paradise.  Living  is  higher  than  in  any 
other  European  capital,  and  the  American  system 
of  charging  for  meals,  whether  eaten  or  not, 
makes  sad  inroads  upon  the  purse.  The  Blinker 
was  in  his  element.  Every  waiter  seemed  to  be 
his  bosom  friend,  and  his  lavish  generosity  in 
fees  affected  me  deeply.  Our  departure  was  pro- 
foundly regretted  in  consequence,  and  as  we  drove 
away  I  found  myself  moralizing  on  the  superiority 


LAST  DAY  IN  MADRID.  207 

of  money  over  other  virtues.  It  is  always  appre- 
ciated. No  ghost  need  rise  from  the  grave  to 
proclaim  its  transcendent  merits.  It  makes  the 
hideous  beautiful,  the  foolish  wise,  the  stupid 
witty,  and  the  wicked  saints.  It  can  patronize 
genius,  and  dictate  to  nations.  It  is  very  fine  to 
be  Shakespeare  after  death,  but  how  much  more 
comfortable  to  be  Rothschild  while  living  !  Is 
the  applause  of  posterity  a  satisfactory  equivalent 
for  present  cakes  and  ale  1 

I  had  dispensed  with  the  brilliant  Blinker  dur- 
ing my  stay  in  Madrid  ;  consequently  existence 
had  been  unruffled.  Of  course  the  moment  I 
needed  him  he  was  found  wanting;.  It  is  some- 
thing  always  to  realize  expectations.  No  sooner 
had  we  arrived  at  the  station  than  the  Blinker 
succeeded  in  quarrelling  with  an  official  about  his 
carpet-bag.  It  was  enlivening  to  see  two  men 
pulling  one  small  carpet-bag  two  ways,  while  ad- 
dressing endearing  epithets  to  each    other;  and, 


208 


TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 


after  fully  enjoying  the  spectacle,  I  demanded  an 
explanation. 


'.'ill H|Tv>V  )i     f.  <*■■'-  t  »' 


Tussle  for  a  carpet-bag. 

"  Madam,"  said  the  Blinker,  who  by  this  time 
had  tugged  himself  into  a  violent  perspiration  and 
displayed  to  an  admiring  audience  the  one  pocket- 
handkerchief  with  which  he  had  come  into  Spain, 
—  "  madam,  I  wish  my  carpet-bag  to  go  as  lug- 
gage, and  they  say  here  it  cannot." 

"  For  what  reason  %  " 

"  Because    I    bought   the  tickets  in  town,  and 


LAST  DAY  IN  MADRID.  209 

when  tickets  are  bought  away  from  the  station, 
passengers  must  take  their  luggage  with  them  or 
go  without." 

"  Certainly,  and  that 's  as  it  should  be.  Yet 
this  man  is  attempting  to  defy  our  rules,"  added 
the  indignant  official. 

How  I  could  have  laughed,  but  I  refrained. 
"  I  never  heard  such  an  idiotic  regulation,"  I  said 
to  the  panting  official. 

The  Blinker  looked  pleased. 

"  There  is  but  one  thing  more  idiotic,"  I  added, 
turning  to  him,  "  which  is  that  you  who  have 
lived  twenty-six  years  in  Spain  should  not  have 
known  what  you  were  about." 

The  Blinker  looked  less  pleased. 

Think  what  a  state  I  should  have  been  in  had 
not  my  trunk  been  a  bundle  !  We  could  not 
have  departed  without  buying  a  third  ticket. 

Intending  to  travel  all  night,  I  entered  the 
compartment   for   Dames   Seules,  and   met   there 

N 


210  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN 


one  of  the  sefioras  I  had  journeyed  with  from 
Santander  to  Madrid.  Curiosity  sat  upon  her 
tongue,  and  I  was  thoroughly  interviewed.  The 
sehora  had  never  visited  Toledo,  and  had  only 
seen  the  Escorial  from  the  railroad.  Would  I  tell 
her  about  them]  So  an  American  five  days  in 
Madrid  found  herself  expounding  Spain  to  a 
native !  The  native  was  naive  in  her  ignorance, 
and  when  I  had  answered  all  her  questions,  she 
exclaimed,  "  How  strangely  American  women  must 
feel !  If  they  know  so  much,  how  wonderful  the 
men  must  be  !  "  At  this  moment  the  rest  of  the 
compartment  was  taken  possession  of  by  a  frolic- 
some party  of  nuns,  who,  when  the  train  started, 
paused  in  their  chattering  to  cross  themselves, 
and  then  babbled  on  as  ceaselessly  as  a  mountain- 
brook,  —  one  moment  in  French  and  the  next  in 
Spanish.  It  was  the  youngest  conversation  I  ever 
listened  to,  and  I  wondered  whether  getting  to  a 
nunnery  made  children  of  mature  women.     Like 


LAST  DAY  IN  MADRID.  211 

school-girls,  these  giggling  nuns  jumped  out  of 
the  train  at  midnight,  followed  by  my  acquaint- 
ance and  her  maid,  and  until  seven  o'clock  the 
next  morning  I  was  monarch  of  the  most  uncom- 
fortable compartment  in  which  a  woman  never 
slept  a  wink. 


PART    VIII. 

Crossing  i\t  Jrottiur. 


vjv 

ISI 

15111 

VIII. 

A  Returned  Officer.  —  The  Blinker  in  his  Original  Character.  — 
Tafalla.  —  An  Omnibus  and  its  Passengers.  —  Dust  and  Desola- 
tion. —  Pampeluna.  —  Night  in  a  Posada.  —  Smugglers.  —  Carl- 
ists  again —  Runaway  Conscripts. 


FEW  miles  west  of  Saragossa  we  changed 
our  train,  the  Blinker  appearing  with  his 
carpet-bag,  intensely  disgusted  that  all  the  beg- 
gars were  still  asleep,  —  a  criminal  offence,  which 
obliged  him  to  be  his  own  porter.  Again  I  was 
the  sole  occupant  of  a  dirty  compartment  that 
consoled  me  for  not  being  pecuniarily  interested 
in  Spanish  railroads.  Again  I  gazed  upon  sun- 
burnt desolation,  and  when  we  stopped  at  a  sta- 
tion, situated  in  the  middle  of  nothing,  there  was 
a  tumultuous  appearance  of  nobody  that  made 


216  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

me  tremble  for  dividends.  However,  I  did  see  an 
officer  get  out  at  an  impossible  place,  and  be  re- 
ceived by  the  entire  population,  consisting  of  four 
women,  six  men,  and  a  boy.  He  had  evidently 
returned  from  the  war,  and  was  embraced  with 
such  disregard  of  spectators  as  gave  me  an  appe- 
tite for  the  breakfast  I  was  not  to  eat.  His  wife 
threw  her  arms  about  his  neck,  laughing  with  all 
the  joy  of  her  impulsive  heart,  the  little  boy  clung 
to  his  father's  legs  and  screamed  in  Spanish,  the 
father's  father  felt  of  his  son  to  see  whether  he 
really  had  come  back  all  in  one  piece,  while  three 
women  and  five  men  slapped  the  hero  on  his  back 
and  shouted  a  hearty  welcome.  I  may  be  mis- 
taken about  the  relations  existing  between  these 
happy  people,  but,  if  they  were  not  as  I  imagine, 
they  ought  to  have  been. 

Gradually  we  approached  the  Carlist  region,  and 
at  ten  o'clock  stopped  at  a  station  where  soldiers 
stood  at  ease  and  crowds  of  men  were  lounging. 


CROSSING   THE  FRONTIER.  217 


The  break  in  the  railroad  was  not  far  off.  How 
to  secure  a  conveyance  after  arriving  at  Tafalla, 
no  one  in  Madrid  had  been  able  to  tell  me.  So,  as 
the  Blinker  condescended  to  ask  whether  I  want- 
ed anything,  I  desired  him  to  inquire  about  dili- 
gences and  telegraph  to  Tafalla  for  places. 

"  Perfectly  useless,"  replied  he  who  had  lived 
twenty-six  years  in  Spain  ;  "  no  one  can  give  any 
information  here,  and  who  knows  whether  a 
telegram  will  be  sent  1 " 

In  the  language  of  Sheridan  Knowles's  Julia,  I 
tragically  exclaimed,  "  Do  it,  nor  leave  the  task  to 
me." 

The  Blinker  suddenly  vanished,  and  there  ap- 
peared an  exceedingly  polite  official,  who,  in  good 
French,  offered  to  assist  me,  a  stranger,  by  secur- 
ing seats  in  the  diligence  from  Tafalla  to  Pampe- 
luna.  "  The  agency  is  here,"  he  added,  "  and  you 
will  have  no  chance  unless  you  apply  immedi- 
ately." Well,  that  Blinker  returned  soon  after, 
10 


218  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 


nodded  smilingly,  exhibited  tickets  for  the  dili- 
gence, and  looked  as  though  he  had  gained  a  vic- 
tory over  me  by  successfully  doing  what  I  had 
pronounced  impossible.  In  six  months  he  would 
have  ruined  the  temper  of  Griselda. 

We  were  in  the  Province  of  Navarre,  and  as  we 
crossed  the  bridge  thrown  over  the  river  Aragon, 
guarded  on  both  banks  by  Republican  soldiers,  I 
began  to  scent  the  not  distant  Carlists.  They 
dared  not  go  beyond  the  Aragon  for  fear  of  ambus- 
cades, and  the  bridge  was  protected  lest  the  enemy 
should  attempt  to  blow  it  up.  On  arriving  at 
Tafalla,  a  town  of  five  thousand  inhabitants,  once 
called  "la  flor  de  Navarre"  (the  flower  of  Navarre), 
and  long  the  residence  of  its  kings,  the  railroad 
came  to  an  end.  Beyond  lay  wreck  and  bullets. 
Planting  my  feet  on  terra  incognita,  I  sent  the 
Blinker  in  advance,  that  his  burly  form  might  cut 
a  passage  through  soldiers,  civilians,  boys,  and 
officials,  packed  like  herrings,  and  no  more  dis- 


CROSSING   THE  FRONTIER.  219 

posed  to  make  way  for  a  woman  than  if  I  'd  been 
Don  Carlos.  Once  on  the  other  side  of  the  sta- 
tion, I  looked  in  vain  for  the  diligence.  "  What 
does  this  mean?"  I  asked  the  Blinker. 

"  There  is  no  diligence.  We  must  go  to  Pam- 
peluna  in  an  omnibus." 

Before  me  stood  the  omnibus.  It  was  dirty, 
rickety,  narrow,  intended  for  eight  inside  and  no- 
body knows  how  many  outside.  I  secured  a  seat 
by  the  door,  and  to  my  amazement  the  Blinker 
took  the  one  opposite,  instead  of  mounting  beside 
the  driver.  I  could  no  more  have  ordered  him 
outside  than  I  could  have  asked  Jeremy  Diddler 
for  the  loan  of  money  ingeniously  absti-acted  from 
my  own  person.  There  are  forms  of  impudence 
that  paralyze  the  tongue  and  render  limp  the 
muscles.  To  face  the  Blinker  for  six  weary  hours 
seemed  more  than  flesh  and  spirit  could  endure. 
Still,  I  had  heard  of  people  retiring  within  them- 
selves, and  I  was  about  to  attempt  this  feat  when 


220  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

the  other  passengers  appeared.  There  was  a 
smiling  woman  with  a  caged  parrot ;  the  woman's 
husband,  carrying  a  deeply  tragic  baby ;  a  very 
fat  woman,  with  a  fat  boy  and  a  fatter  bandbox;  a 
dark  young  man,  much  given  to  staring ;  and  last, 
yet  most  unique  of  all,  a  gigantic  Spanish  peasant 
without  stockings,  and  with  a  constitutional  dis- 
regard for  shirt-bosom  that  proved  him  superior 
to  the  etiquette  of  dress.  There  were  rings  in  his 
ears,  and  he  grasped  in  his  right  hand  a  huge 
staff,  with  which  he  could  have  laid  us  low  — 
omnibus  and  all  —  in  less  time  than  confirmed 
stutterers  require  to  pronounce  the  historic  name 
of  Jack  Robinson. 

Entering  the  omnibus  on  the  double-quick,  the 
Brigand  —  for  such  he  would  have  been  on  the 
stage  ■ —  landed  in  the  Blinker's  lap,  much  to  the 
Blinker's  disgust. 

"  Madam,"  said  my  protector,  extricating  him- 
self as  best  he  could,  "  I  will  go  outside.  You 
will  then  have  more  space." 


CROSSING   TEE  FRONTIER.  221 

I  blessed  that  Brigand,  who  grunted  intense 
satisfaction  at  the  decision,  and  planted  his  staff 
on  the  toes  of  the  staring  young  man.  The  latter 
jumped  up  suddenly,  and  vented  his  agony  in  a 
suppressed  howl.  Seeing  matters  take  a  lively 
turn,  the  parrot  began  to  talk,  and,  I  grieve  to 
say,  swore  roundly  in  Spanish.  The  tragic  baby 
scowled  at  the  profane  bird,  the  boy  put  his  fin- 
gers through  the  cage  and  got  well  bitten,  at 
which  he  cried  bitterly,  and  was  shaken  by  his 
mother,  whose  bandbox  he  had  kicked  disrespect- 
fully. The  entire  performance  so  amused  the 
Brigand  that  he  laughed  prodigiously,  and  ad- 
dressed me  in  a  patois  as  incomprehensible  as 
Koptic.  When  I  shook  my  head  at  him  the 
Brigand  laughed  louder  than  ever,  and  a  deep 
scar,  running  the  entire  length  of  his  forehead, 
grew  fearfully  red.  It  was  an  animal  that  I  saw 
before  me,  a  creature  of  impulse  and  passion,  good- 
natured  until  angered,   and  then  a  fiend.     With 


222  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

all  his  diabolic  possibilities  I  preferred  his  com- 
pany to  the  Blinker's. 

There  is  dust  and  dust,  and  Spain  is  the  mother 
of  all  dust.  It  is  the  whitest,  lightest,  heaviest, 
stickiest  dust  on  earth.  It  enveloped  us  in  clouds ; 
it  flew  at  us  as  though  possessed  of  wings.  A 
broiling  sun  poured  upon  my  back ;  the  dust 
poured  into  my  ears,  up  my  nose,  and  down  my 
throat.  In  desperation  we  closed  the  windows 
and  gasped  for  breath.  Without,  there  was  noth- 
ing but  dust  and  desolation.  We  were  in  the  re- 
gion of  Carlists.  Telegraph  wires  dragged  upon 
the  ground,  railroad  bridges  were  blown  up,  and 
solitary  stations  were  torn  inside  out.  But  where 
was  the  enemy  1  Not  to  have  seen  a  Carlist 
would  be  to  have  lived  in  vain,  and  I  was  begin- 
ning to  pine  for  one,  when  a  very  dirty,  ragged 
man  with  a  gun,  followed  by  several  ragged  boys, 
suddenly  appeared  in  front  of  the  omnibus  and 
commanded  the  driver  to  halt. 


CROSSING   THE  FRONTIER. 


223 


We  stopped. 
It  was  the  enemy. 

Seven  men,  three  women,  a  boy,  a  baby,  and  a 
parrot,  surrendered  to  one  man  and  a  gun. 


Meeting  the  Carlists. 


The  enemy  disappointed  me  sadly.  He  did  not 
thi'ow  open  the  omnibus  door,  exclaiming,  "  Your 
money  or  your  life  !  "     He  neither  relieved  me  of 


224  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

my  watch  nor  frantically  tore  the  rings  from  my 
fingers.  In  fact,  he  scorned  to  look  at  one  of  ns. 
He  confined  his  parley  to  the  driver,  and,  after 
exacting  the  toll  which  all  must  pay,  allowed 
us  to  continue  our  journey.  And  I  had  left  my 
jewelry  in  France  !     It  was  humiliating. 

Twice  I  descried  small  groups  of  men,  attired 
in  dust-colored  rags,  and  leaning  against  stone- 
walls. They  were  the  mighty  enemy,  and  again 
we  stopped  to  pay  toll  to  an  army  of  one. 

Unmolested,  we  entered  the  walled  garrison 
town  of  Pampeluna,  and,  rattling  through  its 
very  noble  and  loyal  streets,  stopped  before  the 
Fonda  del  Infante  in  the  Paseo  de  Valencia. 
From  gazing  upon  one  Carlist  I  gazed  upon  regi- 
ments of  Republicans.  Why  the  regiments  did 
not  sally  forth  and  annihilate  the  one  Carlist 
seemed  queer;  but  fighting  in  Spain  is  queer. 

It  was  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  I  had 
had  nothing  to  eat  but  a  few  grapes  since  the 


CROSSING    THE  FRONTIER.  225 


night  before.  It  occurred  to  me  that,  being  in 
front  of  a  real  hotel,  I  might  have  a  real  dinner ; 
"  but  before  ordering  it,  or  even  securing  a  room, 
find  out  the  hour  of  departure  for  Bayonne,"  I 
said  to  the  Blinker,  who  shook  hands  with  every- 
body, and  seemed  to  be  on  terms  of  intimacy  with 
the  entire  to\yn. 

"Madam,  we  will  start  to-morrow  morning  at 
seven,  and  you  shall  have  your  dinner  in  half  an 
hour,"  he  replied,  leading  me  to  a  room  in  which 
ablution  seemed  possible. 

The  dust,  which  had  made  my  clothing  and  hair 
as  white  as  a  miller's,  had  made  my  face  black. 
My  appearance  was  an  insult  to  a  cracked  look- 
ing-glass. Emerging  from  my  disguise,  I  lay 
down  to  snatch  a  few  minutes'  repose,  but  was 
aroused  by  a  violent  rattling  of  the  door-latch. 

"Madam,"  shouted  the  well-known  voice,  "get 
ready  to   depart   at  once.     The   troops  have    re- 
ceived orders  to  march  on  the  enemy  to-morrow 
10  o 


226  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

at  daybreak.  As  soon  as  they  leave  the  gates 
of  the  town  will  be  shut.  No  one  will  be  able 
to  get  out  or  in ;  and  the  Governor  says  wre  must 
start  this  evening.     The  diligence  is  now  ready." 

Why  had  not  that  exasperating  courier  made 
inquiries  before  engaging  a  room  and  ordering 
dinner  1  Because  he  wanted  me  to  pay  for  lodg- 
ing and  food  that  I  did  not  have,  I  suppose. 
Hurrying  from  the  hotel,  rushing  through  squares 
alive  with  troops,  we  entered  a  dark,  dingy  street 
where  stood  an  empty  omnibus.  That  was  the 
diligence. 

"  Where  are  the  horses  1 "  I  asked.  "  You  told 
me  the  conveyance  was  ready." 

"Well,  they  said  so,"  responded  the  Blinker; 
"but  the  driver,"  pointing  to  a  thin,  cunning- 
looking  man  leaning  against  a  wall,  "says  we 
shall  not  go  for  an  hour." 

And  I  had  been  cheated  out  of  my  real  dinner. 

"  I  am  famished.     Buy  me  something  to  eat." 


CROSSING    THE  FRONTIER. 


227 


The  Blinker  soon  returned  with  a  huge  piece 
of  bread,  and,  seated  in  a  stable  doorway  on 
my  property,  I  proceeded  to  munch  and  munch 
and  munch,  while  mounted  orderlies  dashed  to 


A  dinner  extraordinary. 

and  fro,  wretched  ambulance  and  baggage  wag- 
ons passed  by,  and  the  dirtiest  soldiers  I  ever 
beheld  —  Carlists  excepted  —  stood  about  in 
groups,  smoking  and  laughing.  All  were  young, 
and  all  looked  as  though  they  had  as  much 
idea    of    discipline    as    a    monkey    has    of    the 


228  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN 

theory  of  evolution.  They  were  a  mob  in  uni- 
form. 

"  Ask  those  soldiers  nearest  whether  they  are 
republicans,"  I  said  to  the  Blinker,  who  reluc- 
tantly obeyed. 

From  birth  the  Blinker  had  been  opposed  to 
information,  and  interpreted  with  the  intelligence 
of  an  idiot.  He  generally  forgot  the  point  of 
everything,  and  substituted  "  chose."  Nothing 
could  have  been  more  lucid.  The  soldiers,  how- 
ever, did  not  tax  his  intellect  severely.  They 
merely  shrugged  their  shoulders,  and  made  the 
situation  particularly  agreeable  by  watching  every 
mouthful  I  ate,  and  inviting  me  to  join  the  army 
and  become  their  vivandiere.  "  Live  the  vivan- 
diere  ! "  they  shouted  in  chorus.  Not  knowing 
what  would  happen  next,  I  retreated  to  the  omui- 
bus,  after  telling  the  driver,  in  original  and  furious 
pantomime,  that  if  he  did  not  harness  his  horses 
immediately,  I  should  not  go  at  all.     Much  to 


CROSSING   THE  FRONTIER.  229 

my  astonishment,  that  pantomime  produced  an 
effect.  The  driver  disappeared,  returned  with 
his  horses,  and  in  a  short  time  the  Blinker 
and  I,  sole  passengers,  were  driven  out  of  Pam- 
peluna. 

Were  we  to  travel  all  night1?  No.  In  about 
an  hour's  time  we  stopped  suddenly  before  an 
isolated,  dirty  stone  building.  It  was  what  is 
known  in  Spain  as  a  posada  (resting-place),  the 
peculiarity  of  such  a  public  house  being  that  it 
offers  entertainment  for  both  man  and  beast; 
beast  ranging  over  the  ground-floor,  and  man 
having  the  floor  above.  Posadas  are  mostly  pat- 
ronized by  drovers  and  tramps,  so  that  accommo- 
dations are  limited  to  bed  and  board ;  neverthe- 
less, I  was  thankful  to  escape  being  shut  up  in 
Pampeluna,  and  accepted  my  lodging  without  a 
murmur.  Conducted  to  the  only  tolerable  bed- 
room, I  frightened  my  hostess  by  throwing  open 
the  windows. 


230  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

"  What  do  you  do  that  for  1 "  she  asked. 

"To  breathe  some  fresh  air.     I  am  stifled." 

The  room  seemed  never  to  have  been  venti- 
lated ;  but  then,  what  it  lacked  in  ventilation 
was  made  up  in  perfume.  Stables  may  be 
healthy,  but  their  stale  aroma  hardly  recom- 
mends itself  to  a  cultivated  nose. 

"  How  very  strange  to  like  fresh  air ! "  ex- 
claimed the  hostess.  "Are  you  not  afraid  of 
if?  These  are  busy  times.  We  always  put 
several  people  in  this  room.  You  won't  object 
to  having  some  one  occupy  the  second  bed  1 " 

Object  %  Would  n't  I,  though  1  I  'd  leave  the 
house,  I  'd  sit  up  in  the  omnibus,  I  'd  —  But  it 
was  unnecessary  to  threaten  further,  for  mine 
hostess  gave  up  her  idea  as  soon  as  she  saw  I 
would  not  be  imposed  upon.  Posada  or  palace, 
human  nature  is  ever  the  same,  bullying  where 
it  may,  and  cringing  where  it  must. 

Would   I   have   dinner1?      Wouldn't    11      The 


CROSSING    THE  FRONTIER.  231 

hostess  set  the  table  in  my  room,  disappeared, 
and  soon  returned  with  a  tureen.  Sitting  in 
solitary  barrenness,  gazing  at  this  tureen  by  the 
light  of  the  sickliest  tallow-candle  I  ever  snuffed, 
I  wondered  what  was  within.  Its  contents  were 
novel  to  the  eye,  and  hardly  inviting  to  the  appe- 
tite. Too  thick  to  be  called  soup,  it  was  not  solid 
enough  to  be  considered  anything  else  in  English. 
It  had  as  many  colors  as  Spain  has  politics. 
Perhaps  it  was  a  boiled  kaleidoscope.  It  seemed 
to  have  the  jaundice,  yet  it  was  white  in  streaks, 
and  was  illuminated  with  red  polka-spots.  Could 
it  be  the  national  olla  podrida  ?  It  is  the  first 
mouthful  that  costs,  and,  screwing  my  courage 
to  the  sticking-place,  I  tasted.  Imagine  stale  egg 
combined  with  stewed  oil,  and  you  have  a  vivid 
idea  of  what  I  swallowed.  My  first  mouthful  was 
my  last,  and  when  mine  hostess  entered  with  the 
second  service  she  expressed  surprise  at  the  small- 
ness  of  my  appetite. 


232  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

"  Everybody  always  eats  here,"  she  said,  and 
left  me  to  ruminate.  The  dish  before  me  was 
Spanish  ham,  cut  very  thick,  russet-colored,  very 
bulgy  in  the  middle,  and,  viewed  geographically, 
looked  like  the  top  slice  off  a  sierra.  With  un- 
daunted bravery  I  took  a  discreet  bite.  That 
ham  was  salt  enough  to  have  preserved  the  re- 
public, had  it  fed  on  it  instead  of  hope. 

Covering  the  retreat  of  that  undulating  edible 
with  sour  bread,  I  called  aloud  for  the  Blinker. 
He  appeared  with  his  mouth  full.  Of  course  he 
could  eat.  Misery  likes  company,  but  even  in 
the  capacity  of  sympathizer  the  Blinker  was  a 
failure. 

"  The  dinner  is  detestable.  I  can  touch  noth- 
ing." 

"What  does  madam  expect1?  I  find  it  very 
good." 

"  I  expect  you  to  get  me  some  grapes.  On 
leaving   Madrid   you   overruled   my   order   for  a 


CROSSING    THE  FRONTIER.  233 


box    of  fruit,    by    assuring   me    that    we    should 
pass   through    a   grape    region.     With    grapes    I 
can  exist.     Buy  me  six  pounds." 
"Bien,  madame." 

In  half  an  hour  the  Blinker  returned,  again 
with  his  mouth  full,  saying  that  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  obtain  any  grapes ;  none  grew  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. 

"Then  why  did  you  not  obey  my  order  in 
Madrid  1 " 

"  Madam,  I  have  lived  twenty-six  years  in 
Spain  —  " 

"  Enough.  Leave  the  room." 
The  Blinker  departed  smilingly.  Going  to  the 
open  window,  I  feasted  upon  the  gloriously  bright 
stars  of  a  gloriously  clear  Spanish  night.  I  was 
hungry  enough  to  have  eaten  the  Little  Bear 
roasted,  and  thirsty  enough  to  have  drunk  out  of 
the  Dipper  ;  but  I  did  neither.  How  little  credit 
we  receive  for  our  most  heroic  self-denial ! 


234  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

Star  by  star, 

Near  and  far, 
Throbbed  with  hallowed  light, 

Whispering  me, 

"  Sleep,  for  we 
Watch  through  all  the  night." 

It  was  very  nice  in  the  stars  to  soothe  my 
nerves  and  talk  so  confidentially,  but  would 
they  wake  me  if  beetle-browed  bandits,  envel- 
oped in  the  mantle  sacred  to  dark  -deeds,  came 
through  the  floor  or  the  ceiling,  and  with  a  dagger 
in  one  hand  and  a  lantern  in  the  other  familiarly 
laughed,  "  Ha  !  ha  !  "  and  stabbed  me  through  the 
heart  1  I  was  quite  ready  to  give  up  my  letter 
of  credit ;  but  if  bandits  were  familiar  with 
"  panics,"  would  this  satisfy  them  1  At  least  I 
would  leave  the  window  open,  so  that  the  stars 
might  have  the  opportunity  of  being  as  good  as 
their  word  ;  and,  indeed,  it  was  a  comfort  to  catch 
their   eye,  for  I  discovered  a  panel  door  at  the 


CROSSING   THE  FRONTIER.  235 

head  of  my  bed,  and  my  tallow-candle  expired 
after  a  short  and  fitful  existence.  Clutching  a 
match-box,  I  shut  my  eyes  and  awaited  my  fate. 
It  came  not  in  the  shape  of  bandits,  but  of  a 
charivari  from  the  guests  occupying  the  ground- 
floor.  It  sounded  like  a  nightmare,  but  it  was 
principally  a  donkey,  assisted  at  intervals  by  a 
chorus  of  pigs,  and  so  fiendish  as  to  excite  the 
indignation  of  a  neighboring  watch-dog.  If  there 
be  any  noise  more  unearthly  than  the  braying 
of  a  donkey  I  have  yet  to  hear  it.  The  shrill 
yell  of  an  ill-tempered  locomotive  is  a  penny 
whistle  by  comparison.  There  is  so  much  more 
bray  than  there  is  donkey  that  the  human  intel- 
lect becomes  hopelessly  bewildered  in  endeavor- 
ing to  solve  the  mystery.  Lost  in  its  cavernous 
depths,  I  had  totally  forgotten  bandits,  when  the 
Blinker's  tenor  voice  piped  forth  the  fact  that 
it  was  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  would  I 
please  remember  the  omnibus  started   in   fifteen 


236  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

minutes.  For  the  first  time  I  dressed  by  the 
light  of  matches,  —  a  performance  requiring  con- 
siderable sleight  of  hand.  Having  nearly  set  fire 
to  myself  by  holding  them  in  my  fingers,  I  finally 
stacked  them  as  soldiers  stack  bayonets,  and 
completed  an  original  toilet.  I  felt  one-sided  for 
twenty-four  hours.  Then,  igniting  the  match-box, 
I  illuminated  my  way  down  precipitate  stone 
steps  into  the  omnibus. 

What  a  strange  drive  it  was  !  Beyond  the 
posada  everything  was  asleep  but  the  stars,  that 
still  held  their  vigils,  yet  blinked  more  frequently, 
I  fancied,  as  if  quite  ready  to  be  relieved.  Not 
a  vehicle  passed  us,  but  ever  and  anon  we  stopped 
at  solitary  houses,  where  we  evidently  were  ex- 
pected, for  men  came  out  with  lanterns,  handed 
small  bundles  to  the  driver,  and  talked  in  a  low 
tone.  Then  off  we  went  again,  without  addi- 
tional passengers. 

"  This   is   very  queer,"  I   said  to  the  Blinker. 


CROSSING    THE  FRONTIER.  237 

"  How  did  these  people  know  we  should  pass 
before  daylight  ]  The  regular  hour  of  departure 
from  Pampeluna  is  seven  o'clock.  Yet  people  are 
up  and  waiting  for  us." 

"  Madam,  do  you  suppose  it  would  pay  to  run 
this  omnibus  from  Pampeluna  to  Bayonne  for 
two  passengers  ?  Not  at  all.  It  carries  contra- 
band goods,  and  the  men  who  supply  the  bundles 
are  smugglers.  The  drivers  know  how  to  man- 
age. They  are  great  friends  with  the  frontier 
officers." 

I  was  consorting  with  smugglers  !  The  sen- 
sation was  novel,  and  I  began  to  feel  like  the 
heroine  in  a  melodrama  who  innocently  assists  at 
the  plotting  of  heavy  villains.  When  we  next 
stopped  I  left  the  vehicle  to  inspect  the  smug- 
glers, and  found  them  no  worse  looking  than 
other  people,  one  of  them  being  so  polite  as  to 
drink  my  health  in  the  cognac  I  had  refused. 
On  learning  my  nationality,  he  declared  he  should 


238  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

go  to  my  country,  for  Spain  was  growing  so  poor 
that  an  honest  man  could  n't  live  even  by  steal- 
ing ! 

Was  Mr.  Smuggler  a  republican  1 

Mr.  Smuggler  laughed.  "  My  politics  are  a 
little  of  all  (un  poco  cle  todas).  This,  you  see, 
is  very  convenient.  Whichever  party  comes  up 
I  agree  with,  and  so  I  keep  my  temper,  and  make 
money  whenever  I  get  a  chance." 

I  never  saw  a  happier-looking  man  than  Mr. 
Smuggler.  It  is  a  great  mistake  to  think  good 
people  the  most  light-hearted  and  contented. 
They  are  bothered  by  conscience  and  worried 
about  everlasting  damnation.  This  world  is  most 
enjoyed  by  airy  sinners  clever  enough  to  escape 
detection. 

At  dawn  a  third  passenger  joined  us,  a  Span- 
iard, looking  very  cross,  and  quite  as  cross  as  he 
looked.  I  did  not  blame  him,  for  the  only  time 
he  opened  his  mouth  he  informed  us  that  he  was 
being  ruined  by  the  civil  war. 


CROSSING    THE  FRONTIER,  239 

"  I  've  been  in  the  habit  of  carrying  grain  into 
France.  I  've  horses  and  wagons  for  the  purpose. 
Now  my  trade  is  completely  ruined.  If  I  at- 
tempt to  cross  the  frontier,  the  Carlists  seize 
my  grain.  I  'm  going  to  Bayonne  to  tell  the 
merchants  I  must  give  up  business."  After  this 
outburst  the  retiring  trader  glared  savagely  at 
nothing  in  particular. 

Of  course  I  inquired  anxiously  about  his  politi- 
cal creed,  and  was  answered  thus  :  "I  am  tired  of 
civil   war.     People   of  the  industrial  classes  are 
*  desperate.     We  '11   accept   any   government   that 
restores  order." 

As  the  morning  grew  older  the  scenery  became 
less  monotonous,  such  as  could  be  seen  through 
the  dust,  and  peasants  of  both  sexes  were  occa- 
sionally passed  or  overtaken.  All  of  them  seemed 
to  be  intimately  acquainted  with  the  driver,  who, 
when  the  pedestrians  were  going  our  way,  slack- 
ened speed  sufficiently  for  them  to  dash  into  the 


240  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 


omnibus  and  take  boisterous  possession  of  the 
vacant  seats.  The  younger  men  stood  on  the 
steps,  and  while  embracing  the  door  puffed  to- 
bacco-smoke in  my  face ;  none  of  these  im- 
promptu passengers  ever  paid  a  real.  They 
bounced  out  as  unceremoniously  as  they  dashed 
in,  screamed  at  the  driver  as  long  as  he  was 
within  ear-shot,  and  appeared  to  be  as  happy  as 
though  they  read  and  wrote  and  attended  lectures 
once  a  week. 

Soon  began  the  ascent  of  the  Spanish  Pyrenees, 
that  noble  mountain-range  dividing  the  Peninsula  * 
from  France.  What  happy  hits  Nature  makes  in 
her  boundaries  !  They  are  absolute  inspirations. 
With  the  Pyrenees  came  little  old  towns,  the 
houses  of  which  were  adorned  with  imposing 
armorial  bearings,  last  remnants  of  the  old  aristo- 
cratic vanity.  Entering  the  beautiful  Valley  of 
Baztan,  we  passed  over  historic  ground.  Here  in 
1813  the  French   and    English   fought   hand  to 


CROSSING    THE  FRONTIER.  241 

hand;  here  in  1834  Don  Cai'los  the  Pretender 
penetrated  into  Spain  ;  here,  five  years  later,  he 
retired  into  France  ;  and  here  to-day's  Carlists 
roam  at  sweet  will,  doing  what  they  please, 
merely  because  nobody  tells  them  they  shall  not. 
They  are  in  their  stronghold.  Always  independent, 
always  forming  a  species  of  republic,  this  Basque 
province  has  ever  preserved  its  hatred  of  Spanish 
centralization, —  a  hatred  Carlism  knows  well  how 
to  turn  to  account.  Baztan  is  but  a  transposition  of 
the  Basque  word  baznat,  signifying  "  I  am  alone," 
—  a  true  expression  of  its  people's  dominant 
characteristic.  They  are  alone,  too,  in  the  beauty 
of  their  landscape.  These  fierce  egotists  need 
only  look  out  of  their  windows  to  behold  a  tall 
mountain-range  on  the  right,  a  superb  carriage- 
road  winding  round  it,  a  rich  laughing  valley  be- 
low,  —  scenery  for  a  glimpse  of  which  less  favored 
mortals  journey  hundreds  of  miles.  Some  day 
when  they  have  sense  enough  to  appreciate  the 
11  p 


242  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

advantages  of  reading  and  writing  Spanish,  and 
prefer  to  be  part  of  a  nation  to  the  whole  of  a 
province,  these  Baztanians  will  repudiate  Carlism. 
That  time  has  not  yet  come. 

We  were  approaching  the  frontier,  and  I  began 
to  be  nervous  about  Carlists,  not  from  fear  of 
meeting  them,  but  from  fear  of  the  reverse.  Ever 
on  the  watch  for  the  enemy,  I  yet  failed  to  notice 
a  pedestrian  until  he  had  lightly  tripped  into  the 
omnibus  and  seated  himself  opposite  me.  He 
was  young,  good-looking,  obstinate,  — just  such  a 
fellow  as  a  theatrical  manager  would  prize  for 
leader  of  a  supernumerary  army  in  a  spectacle 
destined  to  run  one  hundred  nights.  He  was 
clothed  in  dusty  brown  linen.  He  carried  a  de- 
moralized-looking knapsack  and  a  gun.  On  his 
breast  was  a  worsted  heart,  emblem  of  the  sacred 
heart  of  Jesus;  arid  on  his  head  he  wore  the 
white  cap  of  the  country,  generally  adopted  by 
the  Carlists,  on  which  was  embroidered  in  gold, 


CROSSING    THE  FRONTIER.  243 

"  God,  King,  and  Country.  Live  Carlos  VII.  ! " 
When  asked  to  exhibit  his  cap,  the  defender  of 
Divine  Right  did  so  willingly,  but  not  one  word 
would  he  utter,  making  up  for  paucity  of  conver- 
sation by  the  steadiest  of  stares,  which  lasted 
until  it  pleased  him  to  jump  out  of  the  omnibus, 
—  of  course  without  paying,  —  and  take  to  the 
woods.  As  he  prepared  to  leave  I  offered  him 
the  remains  of  a  bottle  of  cognac,  and  the  uncivil 
creature  refused  it,  perhaps  because  he  took  me 
for  a  Spaniard.  Spaniards  never  intend  you  to 
accept  their  presents.  They  enjoy  all  the  glory 
of  giving  with  none  of  the  expense. 

Before  the  silent  Carlist's  departure,  the  omni- 
bus halted,  and  two  lusty  young  men  clambered 
up  beside  the  driver.  Shortly  after  his  disap- 
pearance, a  boy  on  horseback  suddenly  emerged 
from  I  don't  know  where.  Again  the  omnibus 
stopped,  one  of  the  young  men  jumped  down, 
shook  hands  with  the  boy,  received  from  him  a 


244  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

package  and  a  stout  walking-stick,  returned,  and 
we  once  more  pursued  our  precipitate,  winding 
way.  Just  before  reaching  the  Spanish  frontier, 
which  is  headquarters  for  a  band  of  Carlists,  these 
two  youths  jumped  from  the  omnibus  and  retired 
precipitately  to  the  woods.  Evidently  there  was 
something  the  mattei',  but  whether  they  were 
escaped  murderers  or  spies,  or  worse,  I  could  not 
imagine.  Whatever  their  crime,  they  were  aided 
and  abetted  by  our  omnibus  driver,  who,  ten 
minutes  afterward,  hobnobbed  with  Carlists  as 
cordially  as  he  had  consorted  with  Republicans 
at  Pampeluna.     Smugglers  have  no  country. 

At  last  I  was  gratified  by  the  sight  of  Carlist 
officei's  in  clean  clothes.  Stopping  in  front  of 
their  headquarters,  —  a  posada  commanding  the 
road,  —  we  were  surrounded  by  a  number  of 
handsome  boys  in  the  becoming  Hussar  uniform. 
Out  of  the  windows  hung  others,  equally  young 
and  equally  well  dressed.     They  were  in  striking 


CROSSING    THE  FRONTIER.  245 


contrast  to  the  ragged  creatures  previously  en- 
countered, and  looked  like  gentlemen,  the  sons 
of  old  Carlist  families  enthusiastic  in  defence  of 
their  cause.  Most  of  them  wore  the  sacred  heart 
of  Jesus,  and  all  conducted  themselves  with  per- 
fect propriety.  I  saw  but  one  gray-haired  officer. 
He  it  was  who  inspected  the  passports  of  our  two 
male  passengers,  waiving  the  ceremony  in  my 
case,  and  exacted  tribute  of  the  driver.  From 
the  posada  flaunted  a  beautiful  Spanish  flag, 
evidently  new,  on  which  was  inscribed,  "God, 
King,  and  Country,"  below  the  arms  of  Carlos 
VII.,  surmounted  by  the  Virgin  Mary  holding 
the  sacred  heart  in  her  hand.  There  was  such 
a  picnicky,  only-pretending,  meaning-no-gunpow- 
der air  about  these  jaunty  Carlists  that,  if  I  'd 
had  a  trustworthy  courier,  I  'd  have  remained 
several  hours,  "interviewed"  them,  and  made 
the  rest  of  the  journey  in  a  private  carriage. 
With  a  Blinker,  what  could   I   do  but  stifle  my 


246  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

inclination?  Only  a  journalist  knows  what  agony 
I  endured  in  throwing  away  such  exceptional 
material.  None  but  a  journalist  appreciates  my 
self-resti'aint  in  not  strangling  the  Blinker. 

Leaving  the  posada,  we  were  stopped  for  a 
second  Carlist  inspection,  and  in  a  moment  after 
stood  on  French  ground  in  the  presence  of  French 
bayonets.  The  contrast  between  the  red  baggy- 
pantalooned,  long  blue-coated  Gauls  and  their 
pretty  neighbors  was  most  amusing.  The  former 
meant  business  and  the  latter  play. 

"What  do  you  think  of  those  Carlists?"  I 
asked  the  weather-beaten  officer  to  whose  keen- 
eyed  scrutiny  we  were  subjected. 

"  We  pay  no  attention  to  them,"  he  answered, 
with  a  contemptuous  expression  of  mouth.  "  We 
mind  our  own  affairs.  All  I  know  is  that  they 
raised  a  new  flag  the  other  day  and  got  joliment 
gris  (prettily  drunk)." 

This  was  all  I  could  extract  from  the  French- 
man. 


CROSSING   THE  FRONTIER.  247 


Having  crossed  both  frontiers,  our  journey  now 
became  uninteresting;  at  least  it  would  have 
been  so  had  not  those  two  escaped  murderers 
again  appeared.  Quickly  emerging  from  some 
bushes,  they  tumbled  into  the  omnibus,  pulled 
up  all  the  windows,  and,  without  explanation, 
lay  down  upon  the  seats,  totally  regardless  of 
me  or  anybody  else. 

"Upon  my  word,"  I  exclaimed  indignantly, 
"this  is  about  the  most  brazen  performance  I 
ever  witnessed.  Shutting  all  the  windows,  too, 
without  asking  permission.  I  shall  stifle."  And 
down  went  the  windows  near  me. 

No  sooner  had  I  let  in  a  breath  of  fresh  air 
than  the  youth  on  my  side  raised  the  glass.  I 
lowered  it,  only  to  see  him  again  close  it.  This 
was  too  much.  Turning  to  the  Blinker,  I  said  : 
"  If  you  've  the  spirit  of  the  ninth  part  of  a  man, 
you'll  ask  these  intruders  what  they  mean  by 
such  impertinence." 


248  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

"  Bien,  madanie,"  responded  the  Blinker  calmly, 
and  then  the  youths  condescended  to  explain. 

They  were  running  away  from  the  Spanish 
conscription.  They  did  n't  want  to  fight  on 
either  side.  They  did  n't  believe  in  either.  Like 
Mercutio,  they  were  ready  to  exclaim,  "A  plague 
on  both  your  houses ! "  The  boy  on  horseback 
had  brought  them  letters  and  money.  The  driver 
was  a  friend.  By  taking  to  the  woods  they  had 
escaped  arrest  at  the  frontier.  Our  long  delay 
at  the  French  station  was  in  order  to  give  them 
time  to  cross  the  country.  We  should  soon  pass 
through  a  French  town,  and  they  wanted  to  avoid 
the  gens  d'armes.  This  was  why  they  wished  the 
windows  closed.  They  intended  to  sail  for  Monte 
Video  the  next  day,  if  the  gens  d'armes  did  not 
seize  them. 

It  was  astounding  how  quickly  my  wrath  sab- 
sided,  and  how  willingly  I  inhaled  the  vilest  at- 
mosphere.    Covering  the  runaways  with  my  cloak, 


CROSSING    THE  FRONTIER.  249 


I  forced  them  to  keep  their  heads  down,  for  they 
were  perpetually  bobbing  up  to  see  if  the  gens 
cTarmes  were  looking.  We  passed  through  the 
town  without  interruption,  and  on  reaching  the 
suburbs  the  youths  resumed  their  tramp  over 
untravelled  country.  When  last  I  saw  them  they 
were  gleefully  waving  their  caps,  shouting,  "To 
America ! " 

Shall  I  ever  make  another  such  journey]  In 
one  long,  dusty  day  I  had  consorte-i  with  smug- 
glers, Carlists,  and  escaped  conscripts  ! 


11* 


PART    IX. 


ut  Sag  of  JUL 


IX 


Bayonne  and  Bayonets.  —  Apostrophe  to  France.  —  A  Carlist  In- 
vasion. —  Restoration  of  a  Long-Lost  Trunk.  —  The  Blinker's 
Farewell.  —  Castelar  and  Federal  Spain.  —  The  Adventurer 
Serrano.  —  A  Good  Word  for  Isabella  II. 

UR  last  day's  journey  began  at  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  It  was  seven  o'clock  in 
the  evening  when,  lumbering  over  the  Allees 
Marines,  we  entered  the  fortress  of  Bayonne 
(Basque,  Baia  una,  a  port),  whence  comes  the 
word  Bayonnetie,  for  in  early  times  the  men  of 
Bayonne  were  famed  as  armorers.  During  the 
end  of  the  sixteenth  or  beginning  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  a  Basque  regiment  opposed  to 
Spaniards  in  the  Rhune  Mountain  ran  short  of 
ammunition,  and,  sticking   the  long   knives  com- 


254  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

monly  carried  by  them  into  the  barrels  of  their 
muskets,  charged  the  enemy.  The  scene  of  action 
has  ever  since  been  called  La  Bayonnette,  and 
from  that  murderous  inspiration  sprang  the  more 
civilized  though  no  less  effective  bayonet,  without 
which  the  Zouave's  occupation  would  be  gone. 

We  came  to  a  final  halt  in  a  small  square, 
dominated  by  a  tall,  gray  hostelry,  the  windows 
of  which  were  alive  with  heads  belonging  to 
serving-maids,  evidently  off  duty,  for  they  chat- 
tered like  a  wilderness  of  monkeys,  or  the  House 
of  Commons  when  the  majority  want  to  talk 
down  a  hated  opponent. 

"  At  what  hotel  shall  we  stop  VI  asked  the 
Blinker. 

"  This  one,"  he  replied,  ordering  the  removal 
of  the  luggage.        , 

The  Blinker  was  once  more  on  his  native  heath, 
and  every  one  of  those  female  heads  nodded  to 
him,  as  if  to  say,  "Won't  we  all  dine  together, 


LAST  DAY  OF  ALL.  255 

and  won't  we  make  you  tell  us  about  Spain  ? " 
And  in  my  mind's  eye  I  saw  the  Blinker  swelling 
visibly  as  he  painted  his  own  heroic  exploits  and 
my  American  imbecility. 

"  Ah,  my  fine  gentleman,  you  want  me  to  stop 
at  this  fourth-rate  inn  because  you  '11  meet  your 
long-lost  own,  do  you  1 "  quoth  I  to  myself. 
"  Well,  I  won't."  Then,  turning  suddenly,  I  said 
we  would  go  to  the  Hotel  de  Commerce. 

"  Mais,  madame,  it  is  some  distance.  There 
are  bags  and  bundles.      This  is  convenient  —  " 

"  Very,  for  you.  My  convenience  is  of  another 
color.     Do  as  I  say." 

"  Bien,  madame."  The  Blinker  smiled.  Inter- 
cepting a  hand-car,  into  which  our  impedimenta 
were  stowed,  we  began  our  march,  much  to  the 
disgust  o^the  female  heads. 

It  was  not  an  imposing  procession. 

HAND-CAR. 

THE    BLINKER. 

MYSELF. 


256 


TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 


Had  it  been  ray  aim  to  impress  the  inhabitants 
of  Bayonne  with  either  my  beauty  or  my  impor- 


» 


^^WmJ4  ■  J^£c&l  S:  ^™-- 


a 

i^?« 


"It  was  not  an  imposing  procession." 

tance,  I  should  have  failed  ;  for  I  looked  "like 
an  ambulating  dust-bin,  and  my  bags  resembled 
recent  Pompeian  excavations.  But  in  France 
who  cares  for  appearance  %  Its  glory  is  exceeding 
social  toleration  ;  and  until  we  learn  to  mind  our 
own    business,    and   let    our    neighbors    cultivate 


LAST  DAY  OF  ALL.  257 

their  eccentricities  to  the  top  of  their  bent,  we 
shall  have  a  very  important  lesson  to  learn  of 
despised  Gaul.  "  0  France,  France,"  I  inwardly 
exclaimed,  in  sitting  down  to  a  comfortable  din- 
ner at  the  table  d'hote,  "  with  all  thy  faults  I 
love  thee  still.  Heaven  be  praised  for  thee  ! 
Confound  the  narrow  souls  who  would  polish 
thee  off  the  face  of  the  earth  !  Without  thee  we 
should  have  no  cuisine,  no  cooks,  no  names  for 
new  dishes,  no  Lyonnaise  potatoes,  no  Bordeaux, 
no  Burgundy,  no  French  bread,  no  c"ffee,  no 
Sevres  china,  no  Lyons  silks,  no  dressmakers,  no 
fashions,  no  bonnets,  no  decent  gloves,  no  bon- 
bons, no  Alfred  de  Musset,  no  Victor  Hugo,  no 
George  Sand,  no  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,  no  school 
of  acting,  no  plays  to  steal  from,  no  live  school  of 
painting,  no  language  to  say  nothing  in  beauti- 
fully, no  Bon  Marche,  no  articles  of  vertu,  no  revo- 
lutions, no  Commune,  no  Paris  to  go  to  when  we 
are  good  and  die  young !     Salut  a,  la    France ! " 

Q 


258  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

And,  waving  an  imaginary  tricolor  in  my  left 
hand,  I  took  soup  with  my  right.  After  that 
nasty  Spanish  mess  it  tasted  like  the  chosen  food 
of  the  gods.  Adam's  fust  bite  at  the  first  apple 
had  not  more  flavor. 

I  had  sent  the  Blinker  in  search  of  the  trunk, 
which  had  been  attacked  by  cholera  at  Santander. 
He  appeared  in  the  middle  of  dinner  to  say  that 
it  had  not  arrived.  Here  was  an  unexpected  blow, 
and,  of  course,  the  moment  my  table  companions 
learned  I  had  been  to  Spain,  the  flood-gates  of  con- 
versation opened.  "  Ah,"  said  the  little  thin  man 
at  my  left,  "  I  've  visited  Santander.  A  fine  state 
they  are  in, — just  like  them  to  keep  your  trunk." 

"  It 's  a  great  trial  having  Spain  so  near,"  mut- 
tered a  Frenchman  opposite.  "  Always  in  a  state 
of  revolution  ! "  You  would  have  supposed  that 
France  had  never  fought  a  battle. 

"  You  sympathize  with  the  Republicans  1 " 
asked  a  third  Frenchman. 


LAST  DAY  OF  ALL.  259 

"0  yes.  An  American  can  do  no  less,  and 
what  I  saw  of  the  Car-lists  did  not  prepossess  me 
in  their  favor.     I  saw  nothing  but  rags  and  boys." 

"  Do  I  look  like  a  boy  1 "  thundered  a  tall, 
broad-shouldered,  good-looking,  blond  young  man 
at  the  other  end  of  the  table.  He  spoke  English, 
yet  did  not  impress  me  as  English,  and  there  was 
something  in  his  accent  and  manner  that  seemed 
un-American.     Puzzled,  I  replied,  "  Far  from  it." 

"  Well,  I  'm  a  Carlist." 

"  Indeed  ?  Had  the  small  boys  I  met  on  the 
frontier  resembled  you,  I  should  have  called  them 
stalwart  soldiers." 

This  unexpected  douceur  somewhat  mitigated  the 
rising  anger  of  the  unknown  Carlist,  who  was 
bursting  with  importance  and  wanted  to  air  his 
opinions  upon  at  least  a  thousand  persons.  "  That 
man  ought  to  be  an  American  stump-speaker, 
and  yet  he  is  not,"  I  thought.  "  Where  was  he 
born  1 " 


2 GO  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

"  I  think  I  heard  you  say  you  were  an  Ameri- 
can 1 "  the  Carlist  continued. 

"Yes." 

"  I  'm  not." 

This  was  charmingly  laconic.  "  I  fancy  that 
you  are  English." 

The  Carlist  grew  quite  red  in  the  face.  I  had 
evidently  insulted  him.  "  I  am  not  English.  I  'm 
a  Scotchman." 

"  I  beg  ten  thousand  pardons.  I  thought  that 
since  the  merging  of  Scotland  and  England  into 
the  Kingdom  of  Great  Britain  this  nice  distinc- 
tion  had  not  been  kept  up,  —  at  least  on  the 
Continent." 

"  Madam,  you  are  entirely  wrong.  There  is 
the  greatest  distinction  between  the  two  peoples. 
The  English  are  very  stupid  and  brutal.  The 
Scotch  are  clever  and  are  gentlemen.  Wherever 
I  go  I  say  I  am  Scotch,  and  am  received  warmly." 

"  I  congratulate  you  upon  your  good  fortune.' 


LAST  DAY  OF  ALL.  261 


"  My  father  is  Scotch,  and  my  mother  is  a  Vir- 
ginian.    You  are  a  Northerner,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes." 

"I  presumed  as  much.  I  fought  all  through 
the  war  on  the  Southern  side.  I  was  on  General 
's  staff.     The  North  treated  us  shamefully." 

I  laughed,  and  replied  that,  considering  the 
South  had  been  beaten,  the  North  could  afford  to 
forgive  hard  words. 

I  thought  the  Scotch-Virginian  Fire-Eater  would 
have  had  a  stroke  of  apoplexy. 

"  Beaten  !  "  he  roared.  "  Never  !  We  were 
overcome,  —  overcome  !  " 

"Be  it  so.  I  've  no  desire  to  dig  up  graves. 
The  South  fought  well  and  was  conquered  ;  that 
is  all.  If  you  prefer  Providence  to  the  North, 
I  '11  say  that  Providence  won  the  battle,  and  most 
deservedly." 

The  curl  on  that  Fire-Eater's  lip  would  have 
been  a  very  Laocolin  to  me  had  it  escaped,  but 


262  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

fortunately  it  could  not,  and  I  still  live.  Silence 
ensued  for  the  space  of  five  minutes,  and  then,  as 
if  even  a  Yankee  were  better  company  than  his 
own  sweet  self,  the  Fire-Eater  lifted  up  his  voice. 

"Yes,  I  fought  for  the  South,  and  I've  been  a 
Carlist  for  seven  years.  I  'm  here  helping  them, 
and  any  one  who  calls  them  boys  does  n't  know 
what  he  is  talking  about." 

"  Pardon  me,  sir  ;  I  did  not  say  that  all  Carlists 
were  boys.  I  said  that  those  I  met  were  boys, 
and  they  were." 

The  Fire-Eater  scowled.  "  Boys  or  no  boys," 
he  resumed,  "  we  '11  see  whether  the  Carlists  are 
beaten." 

"  I  regret,  sir,"  I  said  on  rising,  "  that  such  good 
fighting  material  should  be  enlisted  on  the  wrong 
side.  Sooner  or  later  Providence  will  be  sure  to 
defeat  Don  Carlos." 

This  was  too  much.  The  Fire-Eater  swallowed 
some  water,  and  in  his  rage  choked.     There  was 


LAST  DAY  OF  ALL.  263 

not  a  funeral  the  next  day,  so  he  did  not  die ;  but 
was  it  not  fitting  that  a  believer  in  the  divinity 
of  Slavery  should,  in  default  of  "  niggers,"  devote 
his  young  vigorous  life  to  the  Divine  Right  of 
Bourbons'?  Education  has  much  to  do  with  con- 
victions, but  I  'm  beginning  to  believe  that  tem- 
perament has  almost  as  much.  Certainly  tempera- 
ment is  largely  responsible  for  what  are  called 
morals. 

Where  do  you  suppose  the  Blinker  had  gone  to 
find  my  trunk  ]     At  my  banker's. 

"  How  do  you  suppose  good  Mr.  Banker  could 
get  it  out  of  the  custom-house  without  a  key  % " 

"  But,  madam,  it  was  sent  to  his  care  !  " 

0,  that  man  was  incorrigible.  No  amount  of 
surgery  could  get  an  idea  into  his  bullet  head. 
"  Come,  we  will  go  to  the  custom-house,"  I  said ; 
and  go  we  did,  finding  my  poor  little  trunk  sole 
occupant  of  a  great  room,  looking  as  thin  and 
unhappy  as  though  its  interior  emptiness  had  bro- 


264  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

ken  out  on  the  surface.  The  custom-house  officer 
seemed  to  doubt  the  statement  that  there  was 
nothing  in  the  trunk,  even  after  I  offered  to  pre- 
sent him  with  its  contents  ;  so  opened  it  was,  and 
when  his  eves  encountered  nothing  but  a  clothes- 
brush  and  a  history  of  the  Miracles  at  Lourdes,  he 
gazed  upon  me  with  amazement. 

"  Madam,  this  is  a  mystery.  American  ladies 
travel  with  many  fine  clothes,  —  beaucoup,  beau- 
coup,  —  and  now  I  behold  one  who  travels  with  a 
trunk  and  nothing  in  it.     This  world  is  strange  ! " 

"  The  fact  is,"  I  answered,  "  my  trunk  had  the 
cholera  at  Santander  and  lost  flesh  in  conse- 
quence." 

"  Eh!  qu'est-ce  que  c'esf?   Je  ne  comprend  pas." 

"  C'est  egal."  And  off  I  marched  at  the  head  of 
my  army  of  trunk,  borne  on  the  shoulders  of  a 
porter  who  hummed  the  Conspirators'  Chorus  in 
"  La  Fille  de  Madame  Angot,"  and  remarked,  as 
he  deposited  the  light  burden  in  my  room,    "  It 


LAST  DAY  OF  ALL.  265 


would  be  a  good  trunk  to  carry  in  hotter  weather. 
What  wealth  of  perspiration  should  I  save  ! " 

Now  came  the  moment  of  eternal  separation 
from  the  Blinker.     It  was  a  trying  ordeal. 

"  Madam,  it  grieves  me  to  part  from  you.  For 
ten  days  you  have  been  on  my  mind.  I  have  felt 
for  you  in  your  trials.  I  have  found  you  very 
amiable.  I  can  say  from  my  heart  that  you  are 
very  agreeable." 

I  bore  up  under  this  purely  Blinkerian  patron- 
age, and  smiled  feebly. 

"Yes,  madam,  I  shall  often  think  of  you  in 
that  great  country  to  which  you  will  soon  set  sail, 
and  it  will  be  a  great  consolation  if  you  give  me 
your  autograph,  —  only  a  few  lines  saying  that 
you  have  been  content  with  me,  that  in  time  of 
revolution  I  brought  you  safely  into  France,  that 
I  have  lived  twenty-six  years  in  Spain  —  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  that  will  do."    And  I,  like  a  coward, 
instead  of  telling  that  dirty,  stupid,  incompetent 
12 


266  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 


man  how  utterly  unfit  he  was  for  the  position  of 
courier,  sat  down  and  wrote  thus  :  — 

"  The  Blinker  has  been  my  courier  for  ten  days. 
I  suppose  he  is  honest.  He  is  said  to  be  respecta- 
ble. I  know  he  is  stupid,  and  if  any  one  desires 
to  cultivate  the  virtue  of  patience  at  considerable 
expense  to  his  feelings  and  pocket,  he  cannot  have 
a  better  opportunity  than  by  securing  the  Blinker's 
services  for  a  hurried  tour  through  Spain." 

The  Blinker  was  delighted  with  my  complai- 
sance, and  in  backing  himself  out  of  the  room,  — 
for  his  manners  improved  the  moment  he  had  a 
favor  to  ask,  - —  pronounced  me  "  charming."  I 
wonder  what  he  thought  when  some  obliging  friend 
translated  my  recommendation. 

When  the  door  closed  upon  the  Blinker's  burly 
back  I  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief,  sat  down,  and  took 
a  final  survey  of  Spain.  I  had  seen  enough  to 
know  it  were  an  impertinence  to  predict  the  future. 
Anything  is   possible.     That   there   would   be   a 


LAST  DAY  OF  ALL. 


267 


change  of  government  as  soon  as  the  Cortes  met, 
was  a  matter  of  course.     Spain  has  not  improved 


-/4_  ~ 
"The  Blinker  was  delighted  with  my  complaisance." 

since  Irving's  day,  when  the  Cabinet  averaged  two 
and  a  half  revolutions  annually. 

"  This  consumption    of  ministers,"    writes  the 
author  of  the  Alhambra,  "  is  appalling To 


268  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 


carry  on  a  negotiation  with  such  transient  func- 
tionaries is  like  bargaining  at  the  window  of  a 
railroad  car;  before  you  can  get  a  reply  to  a 
proposition,  the  other  party  is  out  of  sight."  I 
felt  convinced  that  Castelar  was  too  much  of  an 
idealist  to  steer  a  wreck  through  stormy  seas.  He 
had  eaten,  undoubtedly  with  the  best  intentions, 
too  many  of  his  own  words  to  command  the  con- 
fidence of  extreme  radicals  or  the  respect  of  des- 
perate enemies.  Under  the  monarchy  he  had 
many  times  demanded  the  suppression  of  stand- 
ing armies  and  of  the  conscription.  As  Dictator 
he  upheld  both.  As  independent  orator  he  had 
inveighed  against  the  death-penalty.  As  Dic- 
tator he  insisted  upon  its  execution.  In  1870 
Senor  Castelar  was  a  Federal  Republican,  and 
on  the  11th  of  May  of  that  year  delivered  a 
famous  speech  wherein  he  said  :  — 

"  With  the  system  of  centralization,  a  single  day,  the 
24th  of  February,  1848,  decides  the  destiny  of  kings  ;  a 


LAST  DAY  OF  ALL.  269 

single  night,  the  night  of  December  2,  1851,  decides 
the  destiny  of  states.  In  a  country  so  constituted  lib- 
erty is  not  a  vivifying  sunlight  ;  it  is  a  flash  of  light- 
ning, which  strikes  and  vanishes.  Government  is  not 
the  pacific  regulator  of  social  life  ;  it  acts  like  a  blind 

and  brutal  force  ;  it  oppresses,  and  it  crushes 

A  short  distance,  from  this  hall  to  the  Ministry  of  the 
Interior,  and  from  that  Ministry  to  the  Palace  of  the 
Senate,  covers  the  spinal  marrow  of  a  nation." 

Three  years  later  Castelar  opposed  federation, 
and  made  an  enemy  of  the  most  sensible  party  in 
Spain,  because  it  is  the  only  one  founded  on  cosas 
de  Espana,  the  most  pluperfectly  Spanish  cosa  be- 
ing provincial  independence,  and  an  inborn  hatred 
of  centralization.  Now,  Castelar  thoroughly  re- 
pudiates federal  republicanism. 

"  Our  convictions,  our  experiences,  our  sorrows,  and 
our  undeceivings,  ay,  even  the  very  example  of  the 
most  republican  of  countries,  Switzerland  and  the 
United  States,  oblige  us  to  condemn  a  banner  and  a 


270  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 


policy  under  whose  shadow  the  anarchical  cantons  were 
engendered,  and  to  defend  the  only  republic  possible 
(la  republica  posible),  —  the  one  which  is  really  tra- 
ditional among  us,  —  the  one  which  considers  the 
nationalities  as  total  organisms  whose  private  frag- 
ments cannot  be  decomposed  or  separated,  even 
though  but  temporarily,  without  danger  of  death, — 
the  one  which  places  before  everything  and  above 
everything  the  marvellous  work  of  a  thousand  years, 
the  unity  and  intgerity  of  our  beloved  Sapin." 

That  he  should  have  abandoned  federation  is 
as  mysterious  as  that  he  should  have  dreamed  of 
regulating  a  brutal,  ignorant  people  without  an 
army  or  the  death-penalty.  To  look  at  Spain  for 
one  moment  from  an  ideal  point  of  view  is  sheer 
madness  in  a  traveller.  What  shall  it  be  called 
in  a  statesman  1  Castelar  is  too  pure  a  man  not 
to  be  right  in  the  end,  and  at  no  distant  future 
he  may  learn  the  uselessness  of  poetry  in  poli- 
tics, and  the  absolute  necessity  of  founding  con- 


LAST  DAY  OF  ALL.  271 


victions  upon  common  sense.  One  thing  seems 
certain.  However  distant  peace  may  be  to 
Spain,  it  never  will  dawn  until  the  era  of  de- 
centralization sets  in.  The  Intransigent!  know 
what  they  want  far  more  definitely  than  do 
their  opponents.  They  are  in  earnest,  too,  and 
Spain  is  likely  to  sink  very  much  lower  before 
she  rises  purified  by  fire  and  blood.  Autonomy 
of  the  provinces  they  must  and  will  have.  As 
late  as  the  reign  of  Isabella,  Spanish  coin  de- 
scribed the  Queen  as  sovereign  of  "the  Spains." 
She  was  "  Queen  of  the  Spains."  Aragon  had 
one  code,  Castile  another.  Andalusia  is  totally 
unlike  Galicia.  The  Basque  provinces  are  given 
over  to  Carlism,  —  why  1  They  became  Carlists 
forty  years  ago  because  they  were  made  to 
believe  that  if  the  constitution  were  established 
they  would  be  piit  on  a  level  with  all  the  rest  of 
Spain,  whereas  Absolute  Monarchy  would  respect 
their  privileges.     They  are  Carlists  to-day  for  the 


272  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 


same  reason.     Thirty-four  years  since  Theophile 
Gautier  wrote  thus  of  Old  and  New  Castile  :  — 

"  Balmaseda,  Cabrera,  Palillos,  and  other  chiefs  of 
more  or  less  important  bands,  are  subjects  of  perpetual 
discussion  ;  things  are  told  of  them  that  make  one 
shudder,  cruelties  out  of  fashion,  long  since  regarded 
as  in  bad  taste  among  the  Caribbeans  and  Cherokees. 
In  his  last  move  Balmaseda  advanced  within  twenty 
leagues  of  Madrid,  and  having  surprised  a  village  near 
Aranda,  amused  himself  by  knocking  out  the  teeth  of 
the  ayuntamiento  and  alcade,  and  finished  tbe  diver- 
tissement by  nailing  horseshoes  to  the  hands  and  feet 
of  a  constitutional  cure."  (This  last  is  now  denied.) 
"As  I  showed  my  astonishment  at  the  perfect  tranquil- 
lity with  which  this  news  was  received,  I  was  told  it 
happened  in  Old  Castile,  with  which  they  did  not  con- 
cern themselves.  This  response  covers  Spanish  ground 
completely,  and  furnishes  the  key  to  many  things  in- 
comprehensible to  us  in  France.  In  fact,  an  inhabi- 
tant of  New  Castile  is  as  indifferent  to  what  happens 
in   Old   Castile  as  though  it  were  the  moon.     Spam 


LAST  DAY  OF  ALL.  273 

does  not  exist  from  a  unitary  point  of  view  ;  there  are 
always  the  Spains,  Castile  and  Leon,  Aragon  and  Na- 
varre, Granada  and  Murcia,  etc.,  —  people  who  speak 
different  dialects  and  detest  one  another." 

Catalonia,  the  richest  and  most  industrious  of 
the  provinces,  has  a  history  and  language  of  its 
own.  It  is  the  Republicans  of  its  chief  town, 
Barcelona,  who  projected  a  federative  Spain,  it  is 
Barcelona  intelligence  that  feeds  the  Intransi- 
gent! with  determination,  and  it  is  Barcelona  that 
will  probably  dictate  to  the  coming  Spain. 

Yes,  the  longer  I  sat  thinking,  the  more  I  felt 
that  Castelar  would  fall.  Serrano  and  Monarchy 
would  probably  have  their  day  to  die  at  the  hands 
of  Intransigent!  and  Federal  Spaiu.  Serrano  has 
since  come  to  the  surface ;  but  can  such  an  ad- 
venturer benefit  Spain  1  Can  Castelar  accept 
office  under  the  man  who  aided  Olozaga  to  defeat 
Espartero ;  supported  Espartero,  and  then  aban- 
doned him  for  O'Dounell ;  assailed  Narvaez,  after 
12*  R 


274  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

working  with  him ;  welcomed  Prim ;  drove  away 
the  Queen  from  whom  he  had  received  favors  for 
which  the  meanest  cur  on  four  legs  would  have 
been  grateful ;  became  Regent  in  consequence ; 
gave  the  crown  to  Amadeus ;  dethroned  him  when 
he  was  found  to  be  an  honest  man;  and  finally 
escaped  into  France,  disguised  by  wig  and  false 
beard  1  Invited  to  return  to  Spain  by  Castelar, 
whose  faith  in  his  countrymen  does  more  credit  to 
his  heart  than  head,  this  political  gymnast  sends 
troops  into  the  Cortes,  dissolves  the  people's  par- 
liament, and  proclaims  himself  Castelar's  succes- 
sor !  Good  came  out  of  Nazareth,  but  good  ought 
not  to  come  out  of  Serrano,  saving  such  as  some- 
times arises  from  making  matters  as  bad  as  they 
can  be.  There  is  a  certain  sense  of  security  in 
touching  bottom,  though  that  bottom  be  foul 
mud. 

The  rumble  of  discontent  heard  from  one  end 
of  the  Peninsula  to  the  other  is  the  most  hopeful 


LAST  DAY  OF  ALL.  275 

of  all  signs.  Anything  is  better  than  stagnation, 
and  this  discontent  among  the  low-down  people 
denotes  that,  powerful  as  is  the  Church,  its  hold 
is  less  firm  than  ever  before.  There  is  an  im- 
mense deal  of  infidelity  among  the  peasants,  aud 
Castelar  has  told  us  that,  though  Spain  destroyed 
herself  to  save  Catholicism,  giving  for  it  all  the 
blood  in  her  veins  and  all  the  vitality  of  her 
spirit,  there  are  but  thirty-eight  Spanish  soldiers 
in  the  Pontifical  army.  This  fact  is  enough  to 
make  Philip  the  Bigot  turn  in  his  coffin.  Even 
the  densest  ignorance  is  not  proof  against  the 
volcanic  tendencies  of  this  very  uncomfortable 
century,  which  won't  let  any  one  enjoy  a  quiet 
life.  Times  have  changed  since  Sancho  Panza 
was  snubbed  by  his  wife  for  wanting  to  be  gov- 
ernor  of  an  island.  "  Dost  thou  live  in  peace, 
and  let  all  the  governments  in  the  world  go," 
said  that  practical  dame.  "  Thou  earnest  into 
the  world  without  government,  and  thou  mayest 


276  TEN  DAYS  IN  SPAIN. 

be  carried  to  thy  long  home  without  government 
when  it  shall  please  the  Lord.  How  many  people 
in  this  world  live  without  government,  yet  do  well 
enough,  and  are  well  looked  upon  !  " 

For  that  wretched  woman,  Isabella,  whom  every 
one  despises,  I  felt  more  pity  than  contempt. 
First,  what  could  be  expected  of  a  Bourbon  ] 
Secondly,  what  human  being,  breathing  the  same 
poisonous  atmosphere  from  childhood,  would  be 
any  better1?  Madame  Ristori,  who  knew  the 
Queen  well,  and  to  whom  she  once  appealed 
successfully  to  save  a  soldier's  life,  assures  me 
that  there  was  good  in  Isabella  Second ;  and  I 
remember  how  charitably  genial  Irving  looked 
upon  her  exceptional  position. 

"  You  now  see,"  he  wrote  privately,  "  in  what  a  crit- 
ical situation  the  poor  little  Queen  is  placed  by  being 
declared  of  age.  She  has  now  to  exercise  the  func- 
tions of  a  sovereign  while  her  mind  is  immature,  her 
character  unfixed  ;  where  she  has  no  one  at  hand  of 


LAST  DAY  OF  ALL.  277 

talent,  integrity,  and  disinterested  devotion  to  whom 
she  can  look  for  counsel ;  where  she  is  surrounded 
by  court  flatterers  and  court  intriguers  of  both  sexes, 
and  where  even  her  ministers  are  faithless." 

Would  any  male  Bourbon  have  been  less  blam- 
able  1  And  when  Americans  revile  the  second 
Isabella,  would  it  not  be  well  to  recall  the  first, 
the  sovereign  to  whose  generosity  we  owe  the 
discovery  of  our  continent?  If  a  woman  lost 
Spaiu,  a  woman  found  America,  and  for  her  sake, 
as  well  as  for  humanity's,  I  cry  from  my  heart,  — 

"  St.  Jago  and  forward  Spain !  " 


THE   END. 


H\ 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

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